Meet me in Montauk: Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

You don’t have to lie to girls, if they like you, they’ll just lie to themselves.

“No, don't say it was just, an isolated incident that happened once, there's no need to pretend, I've never seen an ugly truth that I can't bend, to something that looks better, I'm stupid, but I'm clever, Yeah, I can make a shitshow look a whole lot like forever, and ever.”

August to November.

I used to think that no matter what happened, we would always somehow find our way back to each other, if it was meant to be. And we had, but not in the fantastical fairy-tale “love conquers all” kind of way.

I was naive — hopelessly, foolishly naive — to believe that things would magically be fine. That somehow, after all of the lies, all the deception, and all the quiet unraveling of everything we once were, we could rewind time. Back to the version of us that had existed. Before the love had slowly soured into something that looked a lot like resentment.

I should’ve known better. I should’ve run far away and never looked back the second he looked at me like that again — that familiar look that I once could’ve recognized in any crowded room. After about a month of silence, it came back, ghostly, and haunting. And instead of running, I let myself believe in it again. That maybe this time, it meant something different.

But it didn’t.

August.

The first two weeks of August were fine, — manageable even; but as the month progressed, I could barely stomach anything, I didn’t eat, and I could barely sleep. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I couldn’t. My body was running on pure heartbreak and confusion. I cried in school bathrooms between classes, and then cried some more once I got home. Everything around me felt tainted, like the colour had drained out of my life.

No matter how many people I was surrounded by — people who genuinely loved and cared for me — an inevitable sadness lingered over my 17th Birthday. I smiled, I laughed, I said ‘thank you’ more times than I could count… but in the back of my mind, all I could think about was him. How he hadn’t even sent me a simple “Happy Birthday” text; and instead, was off somewhere holding hands with another girl.

The part that really stung? He knew. He knew. Because as everyone around me sang with wide smiles and open hearts, he sat there — just a few feet away — eyes glued to the ground like it was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.

It was the kind of silence that said more than any message ever could.

It mattered to me.

Not just the birthday message — but the acknowledgement. The tiniest sign that I had meant something, at some point. That I wasn’t just a passing thought or a phase to outgrow. I think that’s what I really wanted — not an apology, not a grand gesture — just some proof that I hadn’t imagined it all. That the late-night talks, the dumb jokes, the promises, the “I-love-you”’s, the everything… had actually meant something.

Looking back, maybe that was the point. I kept holding onto a version of him that only existed in my memory — not the one who sat there, silent and small. The smallest man who ever lived, as I celebrated my life without him in it.

After almost a year, he threw it all away after two weeks. Yes, I was the one who ended it… but he was the one who made it feel like it never really mattered.

September.

Mid-September was a blur to me, but only because my brain was too tired to process it all. If I had to label it, I’d call it the ‘honeymoon stage’ of rekindling. A phase that felt warm for a moment, but didn’t last long.

After weeks of nothing, he started dropping vague little hints alluding to his return — the kind that weren’t direct enough to mean something, but not subtle enough to mean nothing. And, at long last, he broke the silence with a message, a digital letter, addressed to me. It read like an apology, but danced around the truth. It said everything, yet somehow, said nothing at all.

Upon reading this, I stupidly and spontaneously called him.

He picked up.

And we met up.

When I got there, he was already waiting. We locked eyes and exchanged that awkward, cheesy smile — the kind you give someone when you’re not quite too sure if you should be saying “Hi.” or “I’ve missed you.”

What was supposed to be a quick catch-up and a mature, bittersweet goodbye — stretched on for hours. One story led to another, and suddenly we were sitting there together like no time had passed at all (even though it had only just been a little over a month) and reconnecting with him gave me a weird sense of Deja vu, like I had walked straight back into an old dream I didn’t know I missed.

---

It seemed like his life had entirely changed in my absence — new friends, new memories, a whole new chapter. And while I was happy for him in some distant, detached way … I couldn’t help but notice how my life had stayed the same in comparison, like everything had moved on but me.

Although, no matter how much time had passed, or how many things had changed, there were still these small, stubborn fragments of the person I once knew — and once loved. I recognized all of his familiar mannerisms; The same way he laughed at his own jokes, the way he ran his hands through his hair, the way he said my name when trying to be sincere; for a split second, I saw the guy I had once fallen for…

and not the one who had broken my heart.

This resulted into something I hadn’t planned for, — but maybe a part of me had hoped for deep, deep down, even if it was wrong. When I got home, instead of closure, I was met with a text,

“I miss you. I want you back. I’m sorry.”

After slight hesitation, and the reoccurring question, “should we even be talking?”, what ensued from this point on were nothing but sappy compliments and flirty back-and-forth texts. It played out like a cliche — the kind you’d roll your eyes at if it wasn’t, unfortunately, your life.

We fell back into old rhythms too easily — like heartbreak was just a minor inconvenience that we had chosen to ignore. Like he hadn’t ghosted me on my birthday. Like he hadn’t been busy playing “boyfriend” with another girl. Like he hadn’t ignored my entire existence; for a moment, I even thought, maybe this is how it’s supposed to be, maybe this was our “right person, wrong time” moment correcting itself, and maybe the universe was finally answering my prayers after seeing the state the past month had left me in.

If only I knew, it served as a lesson, disguised as the feeling of love. something good. fooling me into thinking it was something worth holding onto.

Deep down, something in me knew, it couldn’t have been that simple. Still, I chose to ignore all rational feelings. Because all I had wanted was him. And now, he was back — looking at me, with that same familiar gaze, like he wanted it too.

I was brought back to reality as I remembered the truth that lingered in the background.

She was there, too — the same girl he had been holding hands with on my birthday. She wasn’t to blame. If anything, she was just like me — naive, clueless, and in love; Caught in the same mess, chasing the same promises. Just another girl trying to hold on to something that felt real.

She was my real-life version of Olivia Rodrigo’s “Lacy”; amazingly talented, gorgeous looks, terrifyingly brilliant, totally cool, it was hard not to look at her and wonder; What did I have that she didn’t?

Yet, every time he said, “me and her, it’s not like that,” I wanted to believe him. So, I did.

Because I had only just gotten him back, and a part of me would’ve believed anything to keep it that way.

I silenced every gut instinct, every flicker of doubt, and let him wrap me up again like he realized I was the one he had been searching for all along.

Late September rolled in, and mock exam week came and went. Me and him happened to share two of the same exams, so naturally, we met up beforehand under the innocent guise of “studying” at the park. At first, it was casual. He tossed a few revision tips my way like he was doing me some academic favour, and before I knew it, we weren’t talking about the exams anymore, instead, it had turned into something more.

After that, I shamefully and guiltily walked to my friend’s car, who were also taking the same exam. The looks they exchanged were telling — they didn’t need to say a word, it was a look of suspicion, a look of silent knowing; it didn’t help my case that shortly after, he had emerged from the same direction I had come from.

I didn’t admit what was really going on. Maybe because I knew they wouldn’t approve, or maybe I was just too ashamed to say it out loud. So, I told them that me and him were on “civil” terms, as I watched him walk back into school, as if everything was fine. But I knew nothing was.

My self-respect felt like it had disappeared somewhere along the way, and left far behind in the bushes.

I clung to the hope that maybe, giving him that would be enough to make him stay, because he was the one who had asked for it; But it still wasn’t enough, wasn’t enough for him. To me, what was a sacred connection, and something intimate and rooted in love, he treated like a game, or even just a number. I’m not sure if that was his intention, but reflecting back, I think it was filled with more lust, than love.

And I was too quick to give it up for him again.

October.

October felt like a never-ending cycle of highs and lows — everything was so painfully “on and off”. The sweetness of our rekindling was slipping through our fingers, and what was once effortless, had become exhausting. It was confusing, we would go from exchanging soft words and familiar jokes, to arguing over feelings, passive texts, misread intentions, and insecurities that had begun to fester beneath the surface.

We would stop talking, then somehow fall right back into it. In the middle of all of this psychological warfare and emotional tug-of-war, I was too stubborn to let go — Clinging onto the idea that I could salvage something that was already falling apart.

The movies.

He invited me to the movies on the 8th, and the tone was off the second I got there. I’d hauled ass across town, showed up ridiculously early, and for a solid 15 minutes, I genuinely thought he’d stood me up on his own plans. But then he showed up.

He stood there for a moment, barely acknowledging me, and then hit me with, “Have you bought your ticket?”

“No…” I said, a little confused.

“Then you should probably do that.”

And just like that, he walked off — not with me, not even near me, but somewhere distantly, like we were complete strangers.

So, I paid $22.50 for a ticket to a film I didn’t even get to watch properly. A great symbol of my wasted time and effort.

It was just us in the theater, and thing’s shifted. He went from distant to… clingy, like a needy boyfriend who couldn’t function without my attention. He was practically glued to me.

But as it goes, his clinginess didn’t last long. Maybe because I had said something wrong, or maybe I wasn’t feeding into his behaviour.

He got quiet. He wouldn’t talk to me, and then he walked all the way down to the front of the theater, and sat far, far away from me. I tried to approach to him, but he was acting like a little kid—stubborn, pouting and throwing a tantrum.

So, what did I do? The only thing I could: I gave myself some space, I desperately needed to get away temporarily. I walked to the foyer, desperate for a breath of air, and a moment of clarity. I even went to the bathroom to pull myself together, and to delay going back for just a little longer. Although, when I re-emerged into the foyer, my phone was buzzing like crazy.

It was him, frantically calling me.

“Where did you go? Why’d you leave? Please come back.”

So, like a complete sucker, I went back.

I should've just left, but my handbag was still sitting in the theater... and I wasn’t going to leave that behind too.

Somehow, we’d drifted back into old rhythms, much like the same motions of mock exam week, like muscle memory from a time I should’ve let go of.

He whispered things like, “Say you want me,” and “Say you love me,” and back then, I thought giving him those words meant something — like maybe, if I said them enough, they’d finally be true for both of us. But in hindsight, I wasn’t loving — I was filling a silence he didn’t want to sit in alone. It was never about what I felt — it was about what he needed to hear to feel wanted, powerful, desired. And he got it; he left feeling validated, and, with a rapidly inflating ego that was starving for praise.

The film ended, and we walked out of the theater, and just like that, everything went right back to how it had started. He looked at me like a stranger again, his gaze cold, and distant—like none of it had ever happened. After a quick, almost robotic hug and a barely audible "bye," he walked off, leaving me standing there, alone, with the ghost of whatever that was.

Late october.

Things had picked up; seemed fine again almost, but every moment together felt like walking on eggshells. We’d sneak kisses in the hallways after school, and sometimes during lunch, I’d find him behind the engineering classes to talk. He would talk about marriage and us having kids — we weren’t even dating anymore.

Despite the stolen moments, he was oddly reluctant to be seen with me in public — like loving me was fine in secret, but too inconvenient in daylight.

Later on in the month, thing’s took a turn.

We argued, argued, and argued.

There was one argument that stuck with me — he got upset over me going Christmas shopping one-on-one with a guy friend — said it made him uncomfortable, even accused me of being the one seeing others behind his back. And looking back, that should’ve been my first clue: the guilty ones always project the loudest.

Because what I didn’t know then was that, while I was in town picking out gifts, he was too — except he was at the movies with her. The same girl he’d once assured me was “nothing like that.”, and puckering up to someone else the same way he had done with me — a literal day apart — to be blunt.

The real issue wasn’t my shopping trip — it was his hypocrisy.

All of your best excuses No, they don't stand a chance, Against all the chances I give you, Isn't ideal, but damn, You don't even have to try, Turn you into a good guy, You don't have to lift a finger.

November.

November was short, and all we did was argue. Every time we spoke, I found myself growing more and more irritated. It was like muscle memory — the same frustrations, the same patterns. And just like that, the reason we broke up in the first place started creeping back in.

I was so sick and tired of it all. I told him to fuck off, and that he ruined my life. He had a way of making me feel like I was the crazy one, when he was actively doing thing’s to make me feel that way.

He wasn’t the same anymore. He said he wouldn’t change. And he left.

It had finally ended.

I’m glad he left — because, if I’m honest with myself, I’m not entirely sure I would’ve had the courage to walk away first.

So why did I stay? Because he was my first boyfriend. And like most firsts, I clung to the idea that it was supposed to mean something. I romanticized the “high school sweetheart” story — the fantasy that if we found our way back to each other, it must be fate, or even destiny. A part of me hoped it would work out, that in thirty years from now, we’d walk into our high school reunion hand in hand, and people would look at us and think, they made it.

I wanted to believe that we were special; The idea of “the one,” had made me want to believe that we were the exception, not the rule.

After all “first love’s”, I think there’s this quiet, aching fear that you won’t find anyone who will love you, more, or even better — you might believe that no one will ever look at you the same way, or love you as deeply again. But love doesn’t run out.

It’s endless.

The love you give come’s back to you. The kind that doesn’t leave you guessing, the kind that doesn’t demand anything of you in exchange. The kind that feels like clarity. And when it find’s you again — because it will — it’ll remind you why nothing else ever worked out.

In the end, me and him didn’t.

I still think about him — not because I want him back, but because a part of me still tries to make sense of it. He left when he was in a bad place of his life, and maybe that’s why I stayed longer than I should have — thinking that love truly could conquer all, but it was a hopeless cause — You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.

And I know now, I deserved better.

I’m excited to escape this town, I’m excited to never see him again. —not out of spite or bitterness, but peace.

I don’t want to find my way back to him anymore.

Girls will cry, and girls will lie, and Girls will do it 'til they die for you.