This wasn't her story. She realized —albeit a little too late— the idea she had of him and her riding off into the sunset on a motorbike, was never going to happen.
He was the love interest in someone else's story. And she was the sidekick. She was unsolicited advice and bursts of stock-whimsy personified into one role. Complete with over-grown bangs and an annoying penchant of putting aside her own agenda, to service someone else's.
She wanted him to be her love interest. But she had just been too arrogant, too scared to admit it. And then someone else did. All the things she wished she was allowed to say, things that the unwritten bye laws of being a sidekick forbid her to, played in loops in her head— I liked him first.
Poor choices and lost moments.
She is now a grudging spectator of the love story enfolding before her; a story that isn't hers. Maybe it's her own damn fault for encouraging someone else to "go for it" instead of going for it herself. She plasters on a smile, as those two puzzle pieces join together; and all she can think is how she would be a better fit—
She wasn't playing her role with perfection, like she promised she would. She wasn't being the friend she promised to be. Perhaps, she was cast wrong. So she left.
This wasn't her story. Her story awaits her. And she will be counting mississippis until then.