I am definitely not staring at my phone, wondering if and when you will text me, because that is something that lovelorn teenage girls do, and while I might still be in the final throes of teendom I will not be a slave to cliches.
I am definitely not lying in bed and thinking about that one perfect night when I fell asleep with your head on my sheets and woke up with your bare chest against my back. I am definitely not burying my head in my pillows a month later to see if I can still smell your hair or your musk.
I am definitely not remembering the feel of your fingers when I touch myself. There is no way at all that I am recalling the shivers you gave me, the glorious sense of anticipation that twisted my insides into origami until I thought they were pretty enough for you to see. I am definitely not imagining your face buried between my thighs and of course I am not upset that this never materialised. Because it’s not something I’m giving any consideration to.
I am definitely not sitting in the sun and letting my mind wander to what you’re doing in the nice weather. I definitely don’t wish you were beside me and we were just talking, because sometimes when you spoke I tuned out and just stared at your lips — the perfect Cupid’s bow and the way you pouted when you were thinking — and I am definitely not thinking about your lips.
I am definitely not still mentioning your name in conversation, and then catching myself doing it, making a mistake, like referring to a deceased person in present tense instead of past. I am not hoping you find yourself doing the same thing, saying my name and wishing you weren’t. And when I informed my friends about what happened between us, I definitely did not take your side and defend you when they called you a douche and a dick.
I am definitely not wishing you would call me and let me know you made a mistake and ask me if we can start over.
I am definitely not trying to cast a shadow over my memories of us together so I can tell myself I wasn’t really happy, so it will hurt a bit less when a Passenger song or a chocolate chip briochet or a reference to your alma mater reminds me of you.
I am definitely not driving for an hour in the rain to see you for a platonic cup of coffee, when I should be doing all manner of other things. I am definitely not still at your beck and call, moulding myself to your every whim without you even realising it, and I am definitely not bitter about this. I don’t hate myself for still wanting to touch your cheek or stroke your knee, and instead I keep my hands wrapped tightly around my chai latte. I am not disappointed that we don’t even hug when we say goodbye, and I absolutely don’t stop driving on the way home and cry at the side of the road over how this is probably the last time I will ever see you. I am also not amused by the stereotypical pathetic fallacy and laughing hysterically over it as the tears continue to fall.
And I am definitely not writing about you.