Now, I know what you’re thinking. Okay, Lara Jean, what sappy trash are you going to force upon my eyeballs?” That s not what this is like, I promise. I’m actually mad, infuriated even. Why is it that you’ve all been able to move on, or practically forget I exist, and I can’t ever stop thinking about you? To the boy I sat across from on the bus for the entirety of middle school: I can t ever get on a school bus without thinking about you. It s all over for me when I smell the cheap, plastic leather of the seats.

To the boy I talked to over quarantine (partially because I had nothing better to do): why is it that every time I eat lemon flavored candy I think about you? You telling me that you liked lemon flavored things was an off handed comment, and you probably don t even remember it. I do. To the boy I fell in love with at band camp, when we randomly had to do an exercise together: I think about you every time I lock my knees when I m not supposed to. And every time I wear a scrunchie.

You’ve ruined scrunchies. Congratulations. To the boy I only see once or twice a month: you manage to consume every inch of my cerebral canvas every time I listen to Ariana Grande’s unreleased track. You know the one. I only have but so many mental still shots of you. Stop it. Of course, none of these things are your fault, but that only makes it more enraging. My love life is insipid at best, non existent at worst. I’m just trying to arrange all of my broken tiles into some semblance of a mosaic. You’ve already collected all of your tiles and made your mosaics without me, so I suppose this is goodbye.

XOXO,
Himeros