I remember being all excited whenever I spoke of you. My friends would tell me my eyes practically would light up whenever I spoke of you, even though to them you were just a mere faceless stranger, whom they only go to know through my stories, weaved during midnight sessions of caffeine (sometimes alcohol) and cigarettes.

But the things I did not say, they also knew. They knew that I was hooked on you. I was stuck in a warp where I couldn’t get myself out of even though I knew how. That somehow you were stuck in my head and I didn’t, and couldn’t get you out of there.

And time passed, I spoke less and less of you, because there was nothing else to say. I spoke less and less of you because I knew that even if I did, so what? I was never the kind of girl for you.

And you were never the one for me.

And as an acquaintance relayed how you’ve moved on, it seemed clear that I could no longer be stuck.

Because it’s time for me to move on too, back to the kind of life I’ve almost grown accustomed to.


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