It’s almost been a month since you showed up in my bedroom and chose to tell me that we were obsolete. And I’m okay. I wake up in the mornings and eat my honey nut cheerios to satisfy my daily iron needs, then I dress in clothes that keep me hidden from the world, and I count the number of times you cross my mind. It’s growing less frequent, and all my friends say that’s a good thing. I equated our love to Ally Sheedy’s and Emilio Estevez’s (“Breakfast Club” reference), where I was the analyzing, bizarre girl and you were the extroverted, attractive socialite. Of course, even if you were the type of guy to stumble onto this website, you wouldn’t understand my attempts at making light of my heavy heart.

In the midst of my random drunk texts I send you while watching “The Office”, in between every silent moment of split screen sadness we share, I wonder whether you see my face inside that beautiful mind and miss it. You were who I wanted, but you have made it clear that the feelings were not mutual. And I’m okay. I’m okay. Isn’t that what I should have always said? I’m okay.