How do you know when you are over him? It was a question I had worn on my lips for days, hoping that the answer would, one day, roll easily off my tongue.
It took me years to figure out the answer.
I called you by a nickname and talked about you as if you were my whole world. I knew we weren’t looking at the same stars at night, nor dipping our toes in the same ocean, but somewhere along the years of handwritten notes, I kept coming back to you. It was as if you threw a boomerang across continents to always have me return to you. I loved the thrill of you; to be admired by someone a million miles away.My friends said that you were poison and I was slowly killing myself every time I reached out to you. I didn’t believe them though. I told them that you were perfect, that every imperfection and flaw you had, made you perfect. I used to say to them, “You don’t understand love until you stay up late talking to the one you do love.” Lust, they would say. Lust, Katie, that is what it is.
How do you know when you are over him?
I’m not.