Capitalism does one thing well. It convinces us we need another article of clothing in our fully stuffed closet because some blonde chick is wearing it for a night out.  As an impressionable young woman to this day, I reason with myself to buy another balloon-sleeved top because five of these in my current wardrobe do not suffice. Or because as the weather gets warmer, we need more milkmaid style dresses because ‘SPRING’. Maybe after pondering for a few days and receiving more posts from various influencers about a certain blue sparkly dress (thank you algorithm), you cave in. You’re excited as you slip the package from the concierge into your bag, opening it as soon as you close your apartment door. When you open it, a slight sense of scepticism appears but you put the dress on, nevertheless. 

Am I tripping, or does this dress look nowhere as good on me as it did on her? Her on the internet, the one getting paid to promote this dress. A flooding sense of confusion quickly turned into disappointment and further down the rabbit hole, the existential questioning of my poor decision-making. Not just in this purchase but more of ‘If I could just eat a damn salad every once in a while.’ I do not look good in this dress, or at least this dress is highlighting areas I desire to conceal – the thought of seeing a belly roll is terrifying (note self-awareness in a sarcastic tone). The dress, nor you were the problem. It wasn’t the right fit; it wasn’t meant to be. 

As my body tossed and turned each night this week, so did my mind and my emotions, oscillating back and forth between ‘You should’ve known better, you know better’ and ‘You can’t beat yourself over loving someone who doesn’t love you back, loving him isn’t a crime.’ I have every reason right now to abandon rationale and go back to what feels familiar, that is an amalgamation of jealousy, pain, and love. Drinking my first strawberry daiquiri, I told Miranda ‘I think he’s on a date right now, he hasn’t texted me since this morning.’ He still hasn’t texted me (it’s called withdrawal, look it up), though all I’ve done in the past two weeks was send him Bible verses and devotionals. God understands how tired I feel and how emotionally exhausting the past two weeks have been. The verse in Psalms 139:1-2 comforts me in this difficult time: ‘You have searched me, Lord, and you know me.² You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar.’ 

‘He’s selfish for continuing to keep you in his life, it makes me angry’, says Karen. I’m angry too, or at least I was. When it comes to breakups, villainising the other easily rolls out of your tongue. Yet, the villainization on my end stems from frustration with God. ‘Why did you let him enter into my life like this?’ ‘Why was I made with a heart that would love despite the copious amounts of hurt from the recipient?’. The thing about free will and its intersection with sin is that there must be accountability. Thus, I hold myself accountable for the good and bad. There is no denying the good even if the bad exists. As I walked down St James’s Park, I remembered our second date. It was pouring in July, we walked there from a Korean restaurant and sat on this bench in front of this sad tree, with an umbrella hanging over our heads. He looked beautiful in the rain, the wrinkles folding around his turquoise eyes as we held hands between a folded card he brought from Mass. The whole thing looked like a scene plucked from a sad romance movie (cue the Notebook because, rain). On a catch-up call with my close friends, Penelope goes ‘You know, when I think about love, I think about you [ME, the writer]. You showed him what love looked like, not to earn his love but simply because you love him. You loved cooking for him and watching the movies he liked, you’re an acts of service person. Your love towards him was always direct, never discreet.’ It became prevalent to me at that moment, I hadn’t reserved any regrets over loving him so much, despite not receiving any of it back. I would never feel apologetic over how much I cared for him – how his laughs and his pain became mine. 

Recently, I’ve been rewatching Gossip Girl and this scene where Blair and Chuck break up (he may or may have not traded her for his precious Empire Hotel). She goes up to him after meagre attempts to meet the eligible men of New York and says the way to get over him, wasn’t to hook up with some guy but to face the reality that they loved each other and that he broke her heart. The scene ends in her resolved tone that goes ‘I’m going to kiss somebody someday. And when I do, it will be for me.’