You’ve been stuck on her for a long, long time. Only two years! You tell yourself, when it’s been more like three. You may be a degenerate but you still have a little bitch of an ego to stroke, and you do so well posting things to your story, making references you think she’ll enjoy, just to relish in the glory of a single view from her. No, you’re past the point of communication. You haven’t had a real conversation with her in years, not if you don’t count the few lines she sent you at 5 am after a ton of snow shoveling. That’s the only way she’d ever actually talk to you—when she’s completely out of her mind, in a fantasy world where all of your stupid, pathetic flaws and the inevitable ick she got from you never existed.

Until it does, and once again, you’re alone. You were doing so well, too, only checking her social media three times a day, at max. You parceled up your lurking sessions that filled you more than your meals per day. You needed to check up on her like you need to breathe. It was involuntary, it kept you going. Your close friends would do something as simple as use your phone to search something up on IG and see her name as the first search result. Every. Time. They’re used to it at this point, and likely scared that any mention of her name might do you in for the breakdown of a lifetime. It almost happened—once when a stupid, loudmouthed girlfriend of a friend dully asked “hasn’t it been years?” Down bad. Down so fucking bad. Everyone knew she was right, looking away, afraid to see your reaction. But it was strange, her name not even mentioned, just the thought of her looming in all of their minds was enough of a dopamine spike for you that you actually felt good for once. Confirmation that she exists in the same world, breathing the same air, going to sleep under the same sky; it was a high for you.

You had gotten to a good place, you thought, until she ambushed you with words you’re sure she doesn’t even remember. Before this, in a sad attempt to move on with your life, you had mustered up the courage to go on a few dates. Even went as far as to fuck somebody else. But all this time and energy spent on another being was for nothing, you still couldn’t stop thinking about her. Her words so burned into your brain you accidentally said her name when you were deep inside somebody else. You became worse than a degenerate, never apologizing for anything. Entitled. Rude. Bored of everything and anything that had nothing to do with her. Completely indifferent towards the imminent failure of your sad life because nothing, nobody will top the feeling you had when you were with her. You moved past becoming scared to understand just how many decisions she had come to influence for you, despite her years-long absence, and not even a single attempt at communication, sober, that is. No, you’ve grown comfortable knowing the greatest times you’ll have in this life? They were with her, and you’ll never get her back.