God. No.

Fuck.

I think I just saw the love of my life. About six feet away. Here. At the Grammys. My heart is doing little stupid jumps, which is annoying because I thought we were over this. We don’t even talk anymore! I haven’t seen you in four years. Four! Whole! Years!

You know that one person you always sort of assume you’ll end up with? Like, life’s got all these winding roads and dramatic detours, but in the end, you just… I don’t know, find your way back? Yeah. That’s you, baby.

You’re my—what do I even call you? My ex? My childhood sweetheart? The girl I’ve been in love with since I was four years old? All of the above works, I suppose.

We’ve known each other forever. Like, since glue-eating age. Back of the classroom, bright-eyed, full of promise, mildly unhinged from all the sugar we weren’t supposed to have. We had that little “relationship” in middle school that lasted about three weeks and felt like a lifetime. Then we really dated in secondary school. We’d sit in your basement making music—me singing, you producing, which, looking back, feels very… cinematic. We were always meant to do something together.

Then I went on The X Factor and, you know, life happened. We broke up. Didn’t speak. Years passed. Then, 2017—VMAs, you’re there, I’m there, and suddenly we’re we again. Felt right. Felt inevitable. And then, 2019, for some ridiculous reason we somehow manage to break up again.

And now… here we are.

Back in the same room, pretending not to see each other.

And I don’t know what to do with myself because—yeah, I miss my baby. Okay? There. I said it. Sue me.

You’re the person I’d probably call drunk the night before my wedding. The one who “got away.” And it kills me.

So I sit at my table, pretend I didn’t just watch you talking to Pharrell Williams like it was nothing, and act normal. Which is difficult when you’re sitting so painfully close to me. And suddenly, I don’t even care about the Grammys anymore.

Because you’re here.

And because I’m an idiot, I actually thought I was over you.