Maybe She Picked Him. Or Maybe She Picked Herself. The Summer I turned pretty Rys version:
This Summer, I Turned Into Someone Who Chose Herself.
I think about The Summer I Turned Pretty a lot.
Not because it’s perfect. But because it mirrors the kind of heartbreak that doesn’t scream—it simmers. It lingers. It leaves you in doorways, in in-between places, wondering if the love you chose still remembers how to love you back.
Everyone focuses on who she picked in the end.
But I think the more powerful story was always the quiet one:
what if she picked herself?
If you asked me before, I always said I was Team Jeremiah.
I liked the way he loved—warm, safe, all in.
He felt like the person who would never leave.
But sometimes, the person who stays… isn’t the one who sees you.
And lately?
I think I’m leaning toward Team Conrad.
Not because he’s easier, but because he’s honest.
He carries damage, yes—but he feels.
He disappears, yes—but when he returns, he shows up.
And maybe—just maybe—
I’m Team Belly now.
Because maybe the real story isn’t about choosing a boy.
Maybe it’s about choosing you when neither of them can meet you where you are.
There’s something about having your heart in two places at once.
One feels like safety. The quiet kind of love. The one that made you believe in a future.
The other feels like fire. The one that saw you once, broke you, and still somehow found their way back.
You don’t expect your heart to split open like that.
You don’t plan for someone to return right as everything else is fading.
But when the warmth you’ve been holding starts to feel cold,
you notice the spark.
You remember how it felt to be seen.
And suddenly you’re not sure if staying still is the same thing as being held.
The truth is: I’ve been loving someone deeply, quietly, and with so much of myself.
Even when it got quiet.
Even when I didn’t get texts back until morning.
Even when I stopped feeling chosen and started feeling… tolerated.
So I checked for a pulse.
I asked the question.
And I got a half-answer.
A “yeah, of course.”
A “sorry I’ve been distant.”
But how do you say you love someone you can’t even tell is dying in front of you?
I’ve been giving CPR to a love I thought we were building—
while the other person just stood there with a thumbs up.
You can’t expect someone to water the garden to tend to it while the gardener steps in once a week and says “okay cool it still here” nothing grows that way. thats how plants… eventually die.
When love is in the room it makes things harder, because I know for me at least love is everything, i fight for connections, for love, for people, but when youre the only one fighting whether the other person realizes it or not.. its tiring.
Playing both sides is tiring too because when the past knocks and you answer because it gives what the future you thought you were building has been depriving you of you sit there and ask yourself you sit there with your hands in your lap and your heart in two places,
wondering:
how did we get here?
You wonder how the one who hurt you now feels safer than the one who stayed.
You wonder if it’s weakness or wisdom that pulled you back.
You wonder why the version of love you tried to outgrow
feels more like home than the one you were trying to build.
And then the shame creeps in.
Because you’re not supposed to feel this way.
You’re not supposed to wonder.
You’re not supposed to ache for both.
But you do.
So you sip water that doesn’t quench.
You wait for texts that don’t come.
You keep telling yourself to “just hold on”
while another part of you whispers, “maybe you already let go.”
And that’s what makes it unbearable—
not the breaking,
but the fact that it’s happening in slow motion,
while you pretend it’s all fine.
You wonder if it’s wrong to love both.
You wonder if it’s worse to love someone who’s here but doesn’t show up,
or someone who left but returned with new eyes.
And through all of it,
you keep loving.
Even if your heart is tired of being tugged in opposite directions.
Even if it’s breaking quietly, in a room no one sees.
And then someone else called.
Not to fix it. Not to rescue me.
But to remind me what it feels like to laugh again.
To be asked questions. To be remembered.
To be seen.
I didn’t expect to answer.
But I did.
And maybe that says something.
Maybe that says more about where my heart is than I’ve been willing to admit.
There’s a version of this story where she runs back into familiar arms,
where she chooses the one who came back softer.
There’s another where she stays with the one who never left,
because staying feels like loyalty.
But the most powerful version?
The one I keep turning over in my head?
Is the one where she stands alone.
On a porch. Or a beach. Or in her own damn power.
And says:
“No one’s coming to save me. So I’m going to stop waiting and start choosing myself.”
I don’t know how this ends for me.
I don’t know who shows up or who fades.
But I know I’m done pouring love into someone who doesn’t notice when I go quiet.
I’m done pretending the weight I carry is equal.
I’m done asking for scraps when I know I’m capable of feasts.
Maybe I’ll choose one of them.
Maybe I’ll choose neither.
But this summer?
I think I might finally choose me because its time I include myself into the equation.
More of Ry:
Rylin Rossano is a health and wellness podcaster, yoga instructor, and content creator passionate about making wellness accessible. She operates under the handle @rylinrosee on Instagram.
In addition to her main account, Rylin manages @recipesbyry, where she shares her love for food, wellness, and body positivity. She also hosts the podcast “Take Care of Your Body by Ry”, discussing topics related to health, nutrition, and personal growth.
For more insights into her journey and mission, you can read her interview in Bold Journey Magazine.