No, really, I do not still think about you at least once a day, involuntarily, even if the thought is just a fleeting memory of something you once said that made me laugh.
No, really, I do not still bring your name up in random conversations, even if the comment isn't particularly relevant.
No, really, it does not bother me at all when you talk about the hot new girl you're lusting for. After all, like exes in prime-time sitcoms, I now only see you platonically, like a cousin or something, and harbor none of those feelings anymore.
No, really, even though we stopped dating ages ago, I don't feel at all nervous when I sit next to you and feel your leg brush against mine.
No, really, I can't remember what it felt like to be kissed by you or have your hand run through my hair.
No, really, I do not miss the way you'd undo my ponytail because you liked my hair better down, or the way my name sounded when it was whispered from your lips.
No, really, I didn't have the slightest idea that your birthday was yesterday, or that two weeks from now would've been our seven-year anniversary.
No, really, you are not the first person I want to call or text when I hear something particularly funny or interesting.
No, really, I am not crazy to still feel this way about you, even though by now we've been broken up longer than we were together.