Sad Girl Summer

Or, sad is a lifestyle, not a season.

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I think about my exes every single day.

Not in the “omfg I miss them so much I will never feel okay ever again, woe is me forever and ever amen” kind of way. But more so in little moments. Fleeting, in and out, the everyday, simple. The ones found tucked in corners or in between metaphorical socks and maybe covered with a thin layer of dust but still visible nonetheless.

I find this perplexing, existential, or at least notable enough to bring up in therapy. My therapist remains unmoved by it. She continuously reminds me that signs of having cared about something or someone and the knowledge that your heart doesn’t automatically unexpand is not a moral failure or even really worthy of a diagnosis.

Still, at least once a day, there they are.

Sometimes it’s the “oh I wish I would have said this”-es; other times it’s just remembering a favorite spice. Sometimes it’s wondering what jokes someone would make about my dog’s newfound affinity for left turns; other times it’s the way I can (almost) always peel a soft-boiled egg perfectly these days. Sometimes it’s in the new leaves popping up on plants; other times it’s in the little specks of blood from a hangnail. Sometimes it’s big, most of the times it’s small, but it’s always there even if it’s more of a hum or a murmur.

I don’t actually think it means all that much. I think when you’re a self-appointed sad girl, you’re just used to things always having somewhat of a haze.