Getting Over Someone You Don't Want To Get Over (pt. 1?)
You still follow each other on Instagram. Sometimes you like each other’s photos, maybe a small comment. It’s never more than that though.
It shouldn’t be more than that anyway; you’re over her.
At least that’s what you keep telling yourself.
She’s always been a social media fanatic. Candids of her and her friends, out for drinks, kicking around a ball, laughing with her sister. There was never any mention of someone new. But one day, you discovered there was.
An inconspicuous photo, linked to you by a fan. Of her and someone else, sharing a chocolate milk, captioned with a simple heart.
She never shared her chocolate milk with you.
So you click on this person’s profile, and you scroll through their entire relationship.
Vacations in the tropics. Hiking, and surfing, and drinking from coconuts, and colorful cocktails. Sitting in her backyard. Hammocks, and tire swings, and lemonade in pitchers, and homemade peanut butter sandwiches. Sporting events. Face paint, and jerseys, and eating greasy corn dogs and crunchy peanuts.
All the things she used to do with you.
And you were kind of sad.
Because those were your things, and she was your person, and there was a time where you told each other everything.
You told yourself it didn’t matter; you’re over her.
But you’re really not.
And one day, while you were kind of drunk and kind of nostalgic, because you were at her favorite bar, drinking her favorite beer, dancing to songs that she would love, with someone who wasn’t her, you message her.
1:03 AM - hopesolo: i miss u
1:24 AM - kelleyohara: Me too
1:24 AM - kelleyohara: We should catch up
[failed to send] 1:25 AM - hopesolo: i’m still in love with you
1:26 AM - hopesolo: yeah i need to tell you something in person
1:28 AM - kelleyohara: I’ll be in town next week. So maybe the usual spot. I’ll text you a time?
2:21 AM - hopesolo: can’t wait.
But you really can wait. And you really should. Because you really regret sending her that message.
So you’re sitting in a small cafe downtown Seattle on a Tuesday night, desperately hoping that a certain someone doesn’t show up.
You don’t know what would be sadder: if she did show up, or if she didn’t.
She does though.
(She always does)
She shows up, all sunshine and rainbows, stray hairs falling across her freckled face, hazel eyes and full lips staring right at you.
And you fall in love all over again.
(You never fell out of love to begin with)
“Hey.”
“Hi,” you breathe, letting out the breath you didn’t know you were holding in.
She looks more beautiful than you last saw her, if that were even possible.
“Can I sit?” She’s smiling at you, and you nod.
“Always.”
You sit in silence for a few seconds, taking each other in.
“I have something to tell you,” you say.
“Oh good, me too.”
And you desperately wish that she feels the same way as you.
“Tell me.”
“You go first. You wanted to, after all.”
I’m still in love with you.
“It’s alright.”
She says it slowly, quietly. Soft enough that you almost didn’t hear. You wish you didn’t.
“I’m getting married, Hope.”
And your whole world came tumbling down.
“Oh.” you say. “Congratulations.”
She hums, and tilts her head slightly, in the way she always does when she knows something is wrong.
You hate it when she does that.
(There was a time when you didn’t)
“So what did you want to tell me?”
“It’s not important anymore.”
She raises her eyebrows, as if she doesn’t know she did something wrong.
(She didn’t)
You want to cry.
“So when’s the wedding?”
“In a few months.”
You take that in.
In ‘a few months’ you are going to lose the love of your life. Again.
But it’s okay; you’re over her.
Except you’re not, and she’s over you.
So you talk as if nothing’s wrong, because nothing is.
And then she drops the bomb.
“I want you to be at the wedding. A bridesmaid, maybe. The entire team will be there.”
And there goes the plan of avoiding the entire thing.
“Please, Hope.”
And you could never say no to her.
So you agree, and you promise to be there.
You ignore her calls after that.
For the most part, at least.
Your conversations are short, curt, polite.
"Yes Kelley, I'm doing good. You? That's nice. No, I can't--I have to do something. Yeah, maybe later. Alright, see you."
You’re busy playing, or training, or travelling the world. Anything to take your mind away from the impending wedding and the ultimate heartbreak.
(Because you weren't broken enough to begin with)
And you really don’t have it in you, to pick up her calls, and help her plan her wedding. You don’t think you can help her decide the style of her dress, or the color of her cake, or the groom’s fucking hairstyle, without losing control.
And by the time the wedding rolls around, you’re dressed in matching mint-green dresses with your teammates, chatting amicably with her friends and family.
You try to ignore the stares of those around you, those who know your story and the whispers of your should, could, and woulds.
You’re happy for her, you tell yourself.
Until she’s at the altar, and the priest asks her to take some boy to be her lawfully wedded husband, and she says no.
The crowd falls silent. It’s quiet enough that even now you can still hear her, some odd half-year ago, telling you she’s getting married.
And now she’s not.
She looks at you, and she says no.
And you want to cry again.
Then she runs off, in her ridiculously styled dress that you didn’t have a part in choosing, away from the groom with the ridiculous hairstyle you should’ve helped choose, and you see a server with a ridiculous looking wedding cake that neither of you will end up eating, and you hitch up the skirt of your ridiculous green dress, because she liked it when you wore green, and you chased after her.
Because you’re still in love with her.
And then you’ve caught her, and she’s in your arms, sobbing into your shoulder, makeup smudging everywhere, and all should be good in the world, but something feels wrong.
And when she tearfully presses her lips against yours, whispering that she’s still in love with you, it doesn’t feel right anymore.
And you realize you’re over her.