I want to shake her shoulders and tell her to stop pining for the boy who has his fingers running through another girl’s hair.
Stop standing on his front walkway, waiting for him to hand his heart to her. Stop slow dancing to the sound of his heartbeat against her head on our living room couch.
“You want to be with someone who thinks you are the greatest thing ever,” I tell her.
Her cheeks blush and her eyes glaze over.
“I know you don’t want to hear that,” I continue. “But it’s true.”
I watch her hold a stopwatch while he runs laps around her. She’s hoping he comes back tomorrow. Every day, I think, she wakes up sure this is The Day.
I want to tell her to fall in love with a boy who loved her first. Who loved her more. Who loved her best.
I’ll leave out the part that boys like that are hard to find.
I want to tell her to stop taking her anger out on the bottles of Lucky Duck lining the windowsill above the sink. Stop stacking them atop the kitchen cabinets like trophies for the girl who never finds First Place in His Heart anymore.
But those words stay silent. Those secrets stay sealed.
I’m trained to stand in the hallway and wait for sobs. To listen for the cracks in her voice when she says his name. To push the conversation forward when she doesn’t have the strength.
I am the heartbreak healer. The boyfriend bully. The future finder.
I am supposed to carve out a path for her, complete with a white dress and a country ballad and a tall boy with brown hair and a big heart beating just for her.
I can’t. I can’t find it.
This is me, the girl who doesn’t have a Pinterest board for that Big Day, the girl who gave some boy her heart and broke it twice, the girl who still isn’t sure if she’ll ever hum a slow ballad barefoot on a dance floor, telling her to hang on.
But not for him. Not for the boy running laps without stopping to see her. Not the boy with his fingers in another girl’s hair.
Not him, my darling. There are billions of other hims to choose from. I have a feeling, someday, you’ll find the right one.