Here is my hello from the other side. My romantic disappointment did not spawn a multi-platinum album or result in a book deal. But I have survived. I am no less for wear. And frankly, I'm bored.

The anguish of unrequited love is far more poetic than the calm of being over someone. There is no agony, ecstasy, or anxiety. If puppy love is a sappy rom-com and unfulfilled love makes for an Oscar winner, then being over someone is the movie released straight to video. There's nothing to see here.

I'm forced to reflect on this as Valentine's approaches (or at least willing to reflect). Where last year I could stay up into the wee hours scrolling her Facebook timeline, searching the archives of Instagram, and dissecting Snapchats, tonight I go to bed without a click on any of her social media. In fact I haven't thought of her in weeks except to think, How was I ever so into you?