I’m the transition girl. The scary little footbridge you’re afraid to cross but do anyway to get to wherever it is you’re going.
We’ll meet under unusual circumstances. It can be at an art fair, or a pottery class, or a dingy bar you went to after a breakup. We’ll smile, exchange witty banter, and you’ll go home thinking you MUST know me more.
I’ll be interesting and funny and cute. I’ll introduce you to a new band each week. We’ll share a soda at some park listening to the new album of City and Colour.
And then you’ll think to yourself how the hell I ever got to be me. And why was I still single?
I’m the transition girl. The one you read in books, who leaves both protagonist and readers a trail of question marks, compelling you all to read another chapter.
You will mistake me for a dream girl, leaving “manic pixie” behind, ignoring the hair color and the disappearing acts, thinking everything I say determines the plot, treating my sadness as some sort of foreshadowing.
I will teach you how to be extraordinary. To try new things. To develop a taste for the wonderful and the crazy. Because sometimes they’re both as sweet as candy.
I’m the transition girl. I have mystery written all over me, and you’re welcome to try and pick me apart to indulge yourself in whatever stage of confusion you’re in.
You’re welcome to turn my words into your gospel while you figure yourself out, decide what it is you really want. Treat every moment we have as an adventure, while some indie folk song plays in the background.
But to tell you honestly, I’m so sick of all of it. People leaving the moment clarity hits them. While I fade along with the song.
People thinking I’m broken but held together by glitter glue so at least I sparkle in parts that hurt me the most.
I’m sick of remaining in people’s what-if lists, thinking I become stronger anyway every time I’m abandoned. That at least I’ll get a good poem out of it.
I never do things for the story.
But the story always happens to me: the meet-cute, me thinking oh my god he noticed me. And he doesn’t mind that I sometimes get crazy. And he remembers this band I said I liked that nobody else knows. And he doesn’t think it’s weird that I change my hair color every two weeks because I desperately want to crawl out of my skin but this is the least I could do for now to become someone else.
I never do all of this for the story. I never wanted to be written off as a plot point, someone the main character meets to make him realize his worth—and in the end I am never worth it.
Because I’m the transition girl. The manic pixie dream girl. Only a few memorable chapters long but never the happy ending.
And all the time, when it’s over, you’ll remember me only when that indie folk song plays on the radio, which won’t be always. You will look back at the time we had with great nostalgia but not an ounce of regret. I was someone you had to know. A phase before you got your life together.
And while it’s flattering that I helped you get where you were going, I still think you should know. I never thought that you were only visiting.