The poem is a single line, and it reads like a shrug with a sting underneath. The speaker is talking, probably to an ex or to someone who expects them to have healed by now, and the question "So, what if I'm not over you?" is half defiance, half confession. The "So," at the start makes it sound like a reply to something unsaid, as if the speaker has been pushed into a corner and decided to stop pretending.
What the speaker feels seems to be a mix of stubbornness, vulnerability, and tiredness. There's no apology here, but there's no confidence either. The question mark leaves the speaker exposed, waiting to see how the other person reacts. The title, "seven," is a puzzle. The poem doesn't explain it, so it might be a number of years, days, or something else entirely, and that's left for you to guess. The mood is quiet, raw, and a little awkward, the feeling of saying out loud what you'd hoped to keep hidden.