I don’t know if this is a letter, a diary entry, or just proof that I still think about you too much.
Maybe all three. I keep seeing you everywhere. Not literally. That would be easier. I see you in places you aren’t anymore.
The corner of that French classroom where you’d sit and complain about whatever teacher annoyed you that week.
I know because I’ve checked.
The only place I truly see you is on my wall, in photos I’m too much of a coward to take down, and your signature.
The other day I saw you through the library windows. I wasn’t even trying to.
I was doing what I always do now walking laps around the school because everyone else has somewhere to be and I don’t.
You were laughing. You laugh differently around him. I hate that I know that. You looked happy. Not pretending to be happy.
And then he kissed you. Just quickly. Nothing dramatic.
The kind of kiss people do when they’re comfortable enough to forget other people exist.
And I think that was the part that hurt. Not the kiss. The smile. Because for months I’ve been telling myself stories. Maybe you secretly missed me. Maybe you were angry. Maybe you were confused. Maybe one day we’d accidentally end up in Home Bargains again arguing over sweets and music and everything would feel normal.
But people don’t smile like that when they’re waiting for someone else. People don’t look at someone like that if they’ve already decided to leave.
I finally got the message.
I hate that it makes me angry.
Not because I want you miserable.
I don’t. I just wish I wasn’t so miserable without you.
You have J. I have nobody.
That’s dramatic. I know it is.
I have people technically.
The “popular” girls still talk to me sometimes. But only when they’re annoyed at you. Or annoyed at T. Or when they want information or someone to start drama. Or when they want someone to laugh at.
They don’t actually like me.
They like the version of me they made up.
The loud one. The mean one. The chav.
The one you think I became again.
I spent my night dying my hair, I know you liked me best when I had pink hair.
The truth is I spend most lunches walking around by myself. Just walking. One lap. Then another. Then another.
Like if I keep moving nobody will notice I have nowhere to go. And every now and then I pass the library and catch myself looking through the windows.
Like some pathetic dog waiting outside a shop.
Maybe that’s why J hates me.
Maybe he saw this part of me before I did.
The part that gets attached to people so hard it feels like losing a limb when they leave.
Every time I look at him I see every bad thing that’s happened since he arrived.
Every time you chose him instead of me.
But sometimes I wonder if hating him is easier than accepting you made that choice yourself.
Because if he stole you, then maybe you would’ve stayed.
If he manipulated you, maybe none of this is your fault.
But if you looked at both of us and picked him…
then what does that say about me?
The worst part is that I don’t even hate myself anymore.
I hate the fact everyone else does.
People always tell you to love yourself.
As if that’s the difficult part.
I know I’m loyal to the point of stupidity.
The problem is walking into a room and feeling people decide who you are before you open your mouth.
The problem is hearing your name and immediately wondering what they’ve been saying about you.
The problem is knowing that no matter how hard you try, somebody somewhere is still telling a version of your story where you’re the villain.
Maybe that’s what happens when enough people tell you the same thing.
You start wondering if they’re right.
Not the girl who avoids looking at me in hallways.
The one who screamed about music in Home Bargains.
The one who wrote her signature on my wall.
The one who stayed up until three in the morning talking about things neither of us understood.
I don’t think she’s coming back.
And I think that’s the part I’m finally starting to understand.
You aren’t my favourite person anymore.
A person who chose a different life.
And if I’m honest, I think that’s what hurts most.
It’s that you seem okay without me.
And I’m still learning how to be okay without you.