I’ve always been told that guys like a good challenge, the girl who gives them a bit of a chase. I’m advised that if I want something with a guy to work out, all I have to do is stay away.

The girl I imagine may or may not respond to your texts, and there is only a slight possibility she will hangout with you on Saturday night.

She’s not doing it to play games, though, not always. The girl I’m thinking of just knows better.Eventually you’ll catch up to her, though. You’ll go to dinner or coffee, and you’ll start to hear her story. You’ll learn why she chose to major in political science, and why she ended up veering away from psychology. How she got that tiny scar on her pinky finger just above the knuckle. She’ll talk about being the youngest of four and the only girl. Her favorite book is Twilight and, no, she’s not at all embarrassed to admit that.

But the best part of it all is that she wants to know your story, too. She wants to know how you got your scars. She asks where you fall in your family tree and how this affected you. She’s curious about your aspirations and the dreams you gave up on long ago. And the weird part is you’re not afraid to tell her.

That outing then turns into several more, and eventually you’ll be dating. You’ll meet those three older brothers, each exactly as she described them. She’ll meet your mom and they’ll bond over shitty teen literature. You’ll shake her dad’s hand and say it’s nice to finally meet him.

And then one day it’s three years later and you’re watching Netflix with her on a Saturday night. It’s then you realize how comfortable all this is. How right she feels nuzzled up on your arm and how, finally, you think you might be okay to settle down, as long as it’s with her.

You see, I am not the girl you will chase. I am the driveby. I am a text sent at 2am when you’re stumbling home and feeling lonely. I’m the headache that comes in with the early morning hangover that can’t seem to get the hint that you have shit to do and this isn’t how you can spend your day. I’m the one you’ll send home alone, and you won’t ask me to text you when I get there to make sure I’m alright; though I wasn’t alright when I got there, so what does it matter really?

I’m not the girl you will lose sleep over, nor am I the one you’ll tell your friends about. I’m convenient. Quick and easy. I respond to texts fast and never leave you hanging. I’m just the girl you’ll just eventually forget, but the one who will remember you vividly. The one who learned from you and others that she wasn’t worth much of anything.