When Sally didn’t meet Harry

There’s a reason the phrase is ‘hopeless romantic’ and not ‘hopeful romantic.’

Because more often than not I find that hope makes a fool out of you, leaving you feeling less-than. I’m tired of rationing with my wasted, hopeless heart as it creates a fake situation once again…

This time round, I’m having to remind myself that I’m not Sally and he’s not Harry. This isn’t a friends to lovers rom-com.

He’s so conventionally good looking I actually find it boring. Give me a quirk, ya know? I’m only plain myself, it’s probably why he’s comfortable around me. Although he did inadvertently call me beautiful, once.

Only once have we been together alone in private and he infuriated me. Told me his relationship secrets and problems in such an entitled way when I was going through something myself. My anxiety was sky high. It was like I’d tuned into his show when I should’ve turned the screen off his stupid, gorgeous face to do my homework.

Yep, when I remind myself of who he is and our mutual insignificance in the big picture of each other’s lives, I know for certain, he isn’t my Harry.

Sometimes I think he thinks I like him and he gets off on the attention, when we just have a similar sense of humour, and a similar desire in what we want life to be, that’s all. I don’t feel desire for him when I see him.

But then I leave and I think about his lips. I don’t think about any other friend’s lips. It’s maddening.