Clearly He’s Just Not That In To You (or me).

You know those people who just can’t take a hint? The ones who linger a little too long, well after the party’s over?

Yeah, that might have been me.

I’ve been back in my hometown this week, and it’s hard not to reflect on the past when you’re surrounded by it. The old streets, the lake where everything good happened, even the cemetery we used to run through as kids, pretending to see ghosts. It all feels alive, like this town remembers every bit of who I used to be.

And who I was, for a long time, was Jim’s* girlfriend.

From 16 to 22, that was me. I belonged to Jim.

Six years is a long time when you think about it, but especially during those years. More than 25% of my life, belonging to Jim.

At 16, you can barely drive. At 22, you’re packing a suitcase for a one-way trip across the country. Everything about who you are changes in those years—except, apparently, how much I believed in us.

Jim wasn’t just my boyfriend; he was my best friend. We started as physics partners in 10th grade. He was tall, blonde, adorable, a baseball player, and smart in ways that made me feel (because he told me so) like maybe I wasn’t (and I was, btw).

He was always there for me, quietly waiting in the wings, and when my relationship with the senior basketball star inevitably crumbled (like, surprise), Jim was right there.

That’s how it all began.

There’s nothing like falling in love with your best friend, especially when it’s your first real love. We were inseparable, and I thought we were madly, deeply in love in a way only first loves can be. We spent all of our time together, and he preferred it be on his terms, which was fine with me. Wherever, whenever. Forever too, and I meant it. I was so sure we’d always be together that I couldn’t imagine otherwise.

And all of this togetherness, foreverness, started right then, at 16.

High school melted into college, and though we went to different schools, we stayed in the same town. It wasn’t perfect, but we made it work, and I would keep my schedule open so that if we could be together, I didn’t have to disappoint anyone else. Through late-night talks, weekend visits, and dreams about what came next, we were a couple. And who wants to make superficial friendships in college or go out and party when we could be together? Well, not me. We were above all that, or at least I was. All wrapped up in our love cocoon. No time for immature behavior like that.

But then senior year came, and things started to, I dunno, feel different.

It was little things. My 22nd birthday, for example. Jim couldn’t take me out because he was busy with something else—baseball or school or whatever it was.

Instead, a nice guy named Victor from down the hall stepped in. Victor showed me a good time and didn’t even expect one in return. And while he was so kind, I just felt really, really pathetic. Like, didn’t I have anything better to do, with anyone else, other than this sweet stranger from down the hall, on my birthday?

And the thing is, I probably would have made plans with friends if I hadn’t planned on being with Jim, who apparently was very busy that night with something super important. I don’t remember what it was, or maybe he didn’t even tell me. But nevertheless, I didn’t have any other friends, because I was always, happily, with Jim. Or waiting to be.

He did follow up within a few days with a pair of pearl earrings, so it was fine. It was all just fine.

Really.

We were both so busy planning graduations and everything else, it was just, again fine —that he was busy. Because I was busy too. And we had eternity together, right? So a little bit of time to organize the next stage of our lives? Well, that seemed reasonable.

Then came the plan. I got a job offer in Massachusetts and said yes, without questioning or asking anyone. After some pressing, Jim said he’d come along, which was, of course, fine with me. Although he didn’t commit to moving out just yet, that was the plan. The one we had made at 16.

And it would start after baseball season. It felt right, like he should enjoy some time relaxing for the Summer, his last one at home. Right? And honestly, I was busy. Settling into a new job, traveling all over the world—it’s hard to make time for phone calls when you’re crossing time zones. And he had baseball and all. So it was fine.

Except it wasn’t. The calls came less frequently, and sometimes not at all. Not the ones he said he’d make, and not the ones I waited for every night, sitting by the phone like some lovesick fool (because phones were attached to walls in 1995).

I called his house once, twice, a dozen times. The phone would just ring and ring. His parents (my future in laws) were the kind of people who were always home—so why weren’t they answering? I told myself he was busy. Baseball, Summer, life.

It would all be fine once we were together again.

I spent those first months in Massachusetts circling wedding dresses in Bride magazine, arranging the apartment in ways I thought he’d like, and only sleeping on one side of the bed. I imagined meeting him at Logan, our new life finally beginning. The one we had planned since 16.

And then one night, the phone actually did ring. Only it wasn’t Jim. It was a mutual friend.

“Have you heard?” she asked.

“Heard what?” I said.

“Jim’s engaged.”

I laughed, thinking she misunderstood. “We’re not officially engaged yet.”

She paused. “No, Amy. Not to you.”

I felt the floor drop out from under me. And the worst part of it was that I was a thousand miles away, and I knew he wouldn’t answer my call, even if I tried, anyway.

For weeks after, I replayed everything in my mind. The missed birthday, the silent phone, the endless baseball seasons, his parents dodging my calls. All the signs were there. I just didn’t want to see them.

I wasn’t ready to leave the party, but Jim? He’d left a long time ago.

But were there hints along the way? Oh, there sure were. Hints so glaring they weren’t just signs—they were billboards. And yet, I missed them. Not because they weren’t there, but because I wasn’t willing to see them. Because seeing them would have meant admitting that things weren’t what I wanted them to be.

And sometimes, it’s easier to hold onto what you think you have than face the truth.

The obvious truth.

That although I belonged to Jim, he didn’t belong to me. (and really, no one should ever belong to anyone, just sayin.)

I didn’t know it until this trip, surrounded by all these hometown memories, that I haven’t allowed myself to remember how that felt. A little pissed. Resentful, might be a better word choice. Or ashamed. Embarrassed. Humiliated. Angry. Betrayed. Sad. Hurt. Wounded. Powerless. Overwhelmed. Lonely. Broken-hearted.

Those would all be good words choices for the feelings. Now, please know that I don’t carry them around every day, don’t think about him much. But here, in this town, I feel they are unresolved at best.

That’s the thing about memory, it doesn’t care if you’ve moved on. It waits for you.

Because I drive past my old house, my schools, my piano teacher’s house. I sing out loud to my daughter, “This is where we used to live.” I narrate all the landmarks of my childhood, pointing them out like a tour guide.

But I don’t talk about him. 25% of my life here, belonging to Jim. And I don’t drive past his house. I don’t drive past the spot where we said goodbye. Or talk about how clear the sky was that night.

Or how, clearly, he just wasn’t that in to me.

Duh.

He couldn’t even look me in the eye to break my heart like a man. Or maybe like a gentleman (like Victor)—someone who could have spared me the confusion, the endless waiting, the slow death of my first, real love.

Instead, he just... left me to figure it out on my own, or from a mutual friend who had the guts to make the actual call. If she hadn’t, would I have, ever?

But hey, we were young. People make mistakes. Maybe he knows that now, or maybe he doesn’t. And honestly, I’m not a victim here. I’m accountable for my part in this, too—accountable for how pathetic I let myself be, for the way I clung to something that was already gone, maybe never there. I probably didn’t make it easy for him to be honest. Because I was so, so…desperate and pathetic.

I own that.

It’s fine.

So today, in my adventures of revisiting all the places that shaped me, a group of us ended up in Plymouth (Wisconsin, not Massachusetts)—otherwise known (because surely we all know) as the Cheese Capital of the World.

While wandering around, we stopped into Maggie’s, a beautifully curated consignment shop filled with treasures: Stuart Weitzman, Jimmy Choo, all the big labels, and all at a steal. But it wasn’t the shoes or the handbags that I noticed. It was what I found in the back room—rows of consignment wedding dresses.

It struck me as I stood there looking at the delicate lace and intricate beading, every one of these dresses tells a story. A story that began with hope, with a promise, with the belief in forever, and most likely didn’t last.

Because here they are. Somewhere along the way, those promises ended in heartbreak, in endings no one planned for.

And I couldn’t help but think of Jim. Of the wedding dresses I had imagined in my mind—the ones from Bride magazine I’d dreamed, 30 years ago, of wearing.

And I couldn’t help but wonder, if he hadn’t ghosted me after six years, would mine—ours—be hanging here too?

Would our story have ended just like the others, with a dress carefully packed up, only to be given away for pennies on the dollar?

It’s a strange thought…the paths not taken don’t just leave you wondering what might have been.

They leave you wondering if you were unknowingly spared.

Not just from Jim, but from myself.

*nope, not his real name. I’ve said my stories are (mostly) true. This is one of the (mostly) times. Victor’s name is Victor, btw.