20 Sloane
September 2017
In the months that followed our unofficial breakup, I threw myself into work. I stayed late at the office, wrote article after article, and Annie loved them. The Gist published three of my pieces, one of which seemed to be resonating with hundreds of thousands of people: “An Open Letter to the Guy Who Didn’t Want to Date Me.” Annie had taken a chance on me, allowing my voice to rise from my notes app to the spotlight of a byline, and it paid off.
I started to realize how common almost relationships were. So many people had that one person they loved but never truly dated, but hardly anyone ever talked about it. Slowly, I started to feel at peace with the fact that Ethan and I were meant to be but weren’t meant to last. It hurt to think of us that way, but it was true.
“Sloane! Your article from last week hit a million reads!” Annie shouted from her office, followed by cheers and shouts of congratulations from the surrounding cubicles.
I couldn’t help but cry. Mila handed me a few tissues and hugged me.
“I’m so proud of you,” she said.
“Thank you, Annie,” I managed to say, “for the opportunity.”
“Wanna pop into my office?” Her tone was casual, but there was a twinkle in her eye that hinted at something more. I nodded, dabbing at my eyes, and made my way over.
Inside Annie’s office, the buzz from the editorial corner was a distant hum. She gestured to the chair in front of her desk with a smile.
“I’ll cut right to the chase,” she began, her hands clasped together as if she were containing her enthusiasm. “A million reads is no small feat. It’s exceptional. And it’s clear to me—and to the readers—that you have a lot more to say.”
I sat, waiting for her to continue, as the remnants of my tears dried on my cheeks.
“So how would you feel about a promotion to staff writer?” Annie’s question hung in the air. I couldn’t believe it was finally within reach.
I blinked, the weight of the offer settling on my shoulders. “I—that would be amazing, but I…”
“You’ll still need to handle your current tasks for now. We’re aiming to hire someone by year’s end. But Sloane, your writing”—she paused, her gaze steady and sure—“it’s raw, it’s real, and it’s what we need.”
The office suddenly felt too small for the enormity of the moment. Staff writer. It was all finally happening. Maybe I didn’t have Ethan, but I had everything else I wanted. My emotions were a cocktail of fear and excitement. Would I be able to live up to these newfound expectations?
“Thank you, Annie. I won’t let you down.” The words came out of my mouth before I could stop them.
Annie’s smile widened. “I know you won’t. Now, go celebrate. You’ve earned it.”
As I left her office, the reality of her words began to sink in. My new title felt like a badge, a testament to surviving heartbreak and turning it into something that moved a million souls. And maybe, just maybe, it was the first step toward finally moving on myself.
***
“Can we get a bottle of prosecco?” Lauren asked the bartender and then turned to me. “So how does it feel?”
“How does what feel?” I arched an eyebrow.
“To turn this heartbreak into something good.”
“It’s hard to explain.” I sat back in my seat. “I read those words, and sometimes I believe them, but other times I can’t even believe I wrote them. It’s only been three months, so I know I’m not fully over him yet, but I’m getting there. These comments and posts from girls who are reading and relating to my article are helping to accelerate it though. They’re giving me the closure he was never able to.”
“I’m so proud of you.”
We lifted our flutes and cheersed each other. After finishing the bottle, we ended up at a piano bar on the Upper East Side, right around the corner from our apartment.
“We really need more friends in the city,” Lauren sighed as we settled into a two-top near the window. “This would be the perfect night to go out, like really out! Not just to a bar close to our apartment.”
“Who else do we know here?” I said, scrolling through my contacts.
“No clue.” Lauren rolled her eyes and took a swig of her vodka soda.
My phone vibrated, and though I’d usually try to be respectful and not check it, I picked it up immediately in hopes that it was someone that I’d been waiting on. As confusing as it was to admit, I think part of me wrote this article hoping that Ethan would read it. I mean, it was an open letter to him after all. The romantic in me hoped that maybe he’d digest the words, feel the same way, hop on a flight, and confess his feelings, his trauma, his every waking thought. I knew that only happened in the movies though.
Instead of being greeted by a text from Ethan, it was the last person I’d expect to hear from.
8:37 p.m.
Reese Thompson:Hey there. Heard you moved to the city, also happened across your article earlier. Congrats on everything! Are you free for drinks or dinner this week?
“Oh my gosh.”
“What?” Lauren asked. “Ethan?”
“No…Reese Thompson.” I set my phone back on the table.
“Stop! You’re gonna answer right? Wait, I bet he has roommates. Tell them to come out tonight!” Lauren begged.
I played along. “Fine.”
What did I have to lose?
An hour and a half and two more vodka sodas later, Lauren and I were waiting in line at The Gem Saloon. Since we only moved to the city a few months ago, we hadn’t explored many places outside of our neighborhood yet. According to Reese, Gem was one of the better weeknight spots.
“I’m nervous,” I said to Lauren as the line slowly inched forward.
“Don’t be! Reese is great. Plus, he was like obsessed with you, so that’s a plus,” she said.
“Oh, was I?” a voice replied from behind us. I spun around and there he was—Reese Thompson in the flesh.
“Kidding! Hey, Reese!” Lauren hugged him and proceeded to introduce herself to his friends.
“Hey, you.” He side-hugged me.
“Sorry about all of that.” I blushed.
“Don’t worry about it; it was flattering. Now follow me; I know the bouncers.” Reese took my hand, confidently guiding us past the waiting crowd. The bouncer, a broad-shouldered guy with an easy smile, chuckled as Reese slipped him cash. With a friendly nod, he ushered us through the door.
The Gem Saloon was just like any other hole-in-the-wall bar except it was decently sized and had a ton of windows, which seemed rare for New York. As we followed Reese through the lively chatter and clinking glasses, he steered us to the bar in the back—well stocked, with a much shorter line. He ordered with a familiarity that told me he’d spent many nights here. The bartender lined up our drinks, and after distributing them to the group, Reese grabbed my hand. Before I knew it, I found myself hoping that he wouldn’t let it go.
The DJ started to play a mix by Calvin Harris, a favorite of Lauren’s. Reese’s eyes met mine, a silent question hanging in the air between us. I nodded, and without a word, he led me to the dance floor. His friends followed suit.
With every beat, the space between Reese and me seemed to dissolve. My heart raced, not just from the movement, but from a crush I tried to deny I ever had. Reese was the nice guy, the one I knew would’ve treated me right, had I given him the chance. Instead, I chased someone who barely gave me the time of day. Somehow months later I was hundreds of miles away from Wilmington, dancing with Reese and not Ethan. It was funny how life worked.
As the song wound down, our movements slowed, and we found ourselves in a quiet corner of the bar. Reese’s gaze was intense, more intimate than the dim lighting of the bar warranted. He leaned in, his voice low over the fading music.
“You know, I’ve always thought there was something between us,” he confessed.
“Maybe there’s still something there,” I whispered back.
And then, in a moment that felt both like the end of a journey and the start of another, his lips met mine. The kiss was soft, hesitant at first, like a question. But I kissed him back, affirming what we both felt.
That night I realized that losing someone doesn’t necessarily mean losing. Every time someone walks out of your life, someone new eventually walks into it. Losing someone means you’ll eventually gain someone even better.
An Open Letter to the Guy Who Didn’t Want to Date Me
By Sloane Hart
Dear ex-“something,”
I’m writing you this letter in hopes that it’ll give me the closure that you were never able to.
September first is this week, which means it’ll be the third month without you. Three months without you in my bed, in my inbox, and in my heart as someone who didn’t break it. It’s weird seeing the seasons start to change. It’s like time is moving so quickly yet so slowly. I think back to that night in June, the night you ended things. Sometimes I feel like it was a year ago; sometimes I feel like it was yesterday. The days are easy, but the nights are hard; that’s when I miss you the most.
What I don’t miss, though, is the hurting. I mean, I do still hurt, but not in the same way I did when we were together. The constant wondering: Am I not enough for him? Why am I not good enough? Why doesn’t he love me the way Ilove him? Will he ever love me? Even just typing out these questions hurts my heart so badly.
Somewhere along the line of loving you and then hating you and then missing you and then hating you again, I realized that you did all you could. We weren’t made for each other, no matter how much I tried to convince myself we were. Although this isn’t me making excuses for you. I deserved so much more than you were ever willing to give me. So why did I used to think that I wasn’t deserving of any of it? I thought I wasn’t worthy of love, and I feel so sorry for the version of myself that believed otherwise. I deserved a title. I deserved a label. I deserved honesty. I deserved clarity. I know that now.
I didn’t want this to be a lesson; I wanted it to be love. But if we weren’t meant to last, then the best I can hope for is that you use our time together as a learning experience, a source of wisdom, a reason to change. I never asked for much from you, but I need to ask this one thing: please, don’t treat someone else the way you treated me. I hate that I’m saying this—my stomach turns at thought of you with someone else—but I know eventually you will move on to another relationship, and I hope it’s different than this. I hope you meet a girl one day that changes the world for you. I hope you love her enough to lay down your armor and give up the fight. I hope that you finally realize you deserve to be loved in a way you never were before, in a way that you couldn’t return to me.
Thank you for giving me a story to tell my future daughter one day when she is going through her first heartbreak.
xx,
The girl who would’ve loved you through anything.