split in two

I am split in two.

There are so many things you do not know about me, and yet, there are so many that you do. You know I cannot fall asleep to the sound of rain, and that my favorite color is green— unless you were to ask me on a Saturday. Then, it is pink. You know I loathe mathematics because there is only one right answer, every time. You know I don’t believe in that; you know it’s because, more often than not, I do not know the correct answer. You know I’m allergic to cats and peanuts and dairy and gluten and anything else that elicits a vomit-like reaction. You know I’m not really allergic to most of those things. You know I’m obsessive and tidy and chaotic and broken. You know I prefer a sunrise to a sunset, and a cup of ice cream to a cone—one is inviting, the other, fleeting.  

You know I loved you; I know I did. 

But you don’t know that I am fleeting. You’ve always preferred a sunset to a sunrise, and a cone of ice cream to a cup. You know that ice cream—one scoop cookie dough, one scoop chocolate—tastes better in a cone. You know you like the collaboration of textures, and for “only a dollar more!”. You know you’re struck by the purple of a falling sun and the huddle of strangers on one shared park bench. You don’t know your hands will be sticky soon; you don’t know how quickly darkness swallows the sky. You know you enjoy the moment, not the consequence.  

You know I was your favorite moment.  

 

---

 

“Do you think we’ll get married?” I ask you.  

We are in the backseat of your car. It is late—past my curfew late. I am seventeen; you, eighteen. We’ve been together eight months now. We had sex for the first time just two months ago. I remember the ache of the first time more than I remember the joy; the notion of something lost, rather than something gained. I was sad, I think. No—embarrassed. You told me you loved me as you slid inside me for the first time, kissing my shoulder. Marked me with love silently; fondled me awkwardly. You wore a condom and pulled out, easing my premarital pregnancy anxiety. You told me you’d never put me in a position where I felt unsafe. I believed you, even as I shook with nerves. I watched as you fumbled with the condom, sliding it on inside out. Shaking your head, you laughed and said, “God, pretend like you didn’t see that.”  

But I did. I saw everything that night—your hot breath on my shoulder, and the twitch of your groin as you shoved yourself inside me. The crease between your eyebrows—frustration, focus. The sweat dripping between your pecs, running down into the divot of my belly button. The brown of your eyes against the blackness of a secret night. The desire. The love. The agony.  

You. I saw you.  

Fucking in public bathrooms, the dirty couch in your garage, the emptiness of a deserted road. We fit awkwardly at first—like wearing jeans just out the dryer. But as we explored each other more, we loosened. We were elastic. After a few wears, the jeans always fit perfectly; you fit perfectly. And I think I liked that about you—the way you learned to fuck me so easily. You know, I think you liked that about me, too.  

“Of course.” You kiss the top of my head, pull me closer. Your legs are stretched across the backseat; I am smooshed tightly between your thighs. My head rests on your chest; your hands cradle my lower stomach. I couldn’t see your eyes, your face, but I could see you. I could always see you. I knew you were smiling; you were always smiling.  

“And how many kids will we have?”  

“An army.” You kiss my head again.  

“A real number,” I whine playfully, gently pinching the skin on your forearm.  

“I’ve always wanted three.” You adjust beneath me, hoisting me up at my hips. I’m still in between your thighs, but my head is now in line with yours. I turn to look at you; you are smiling. You were always smiling.  

“Three,” I whisper, planting a soft kiss on your upper lip. “That sounds like the perfect number.”  

“I hope they have your eyes.” You cup my face between your sweaty palms. I don’t push you away like I do so many others; you are the only person I ever let touch my face. Did I ever tell you that?  

“I hope they have your smile,” I say.  

“I hope they have your heart.”  

“They’d be better off with my eyes,” I joke.  

“They’d be best with both,” you tell me, seriously.  

You always knew how to flatter me. You were my mirror. Clear as day, I saw myself in the words you whispered, your subtle gestures of adoration, your kisses that marked my insecurities. Redefining them; reclaiming them. You were not only you, but you were me; you were us. Did I ever tell you that?  

“Do you think we’ll live in a big house someday?” I ask you.  

“Do you want to live in a big house someday?”  

I shrug. “Do you?”  

You shrug. “Haven’t really thought about it.”  

“Do you think we’ll live in New Jersey forever?” I look up at you; a curious twinkle paints your irises. Mine, the brush.  

You laugh. “God, I hope not.”  

“Do you think…”  

You cut me off. “I think I know what you’re going to ask.”  

“Oh yeah?” I taunt, pushing myself off your chest. I sit up, stuck between the warmth of your legs. I tug on the bottom of your T-shirt, avoid eye contact. “What am I gonna ask?”  

You smile at me. You were always smiling. Your dimples cast a shadow on the rest of your darkened face. I wait for you to answer, but you don’t. You just sit there, staring at me. Smirking, breathing softly.  

You smell of old sex—we smell of old sex. For a moment, I taste it on your breath, inches from my face. For a moment, I think I could smell you from a world away. For a moment, I think we could love each other from a world away. You are a privilege; this love is a privilege. That, I don’t think for a moment. That, I think for a lifetime.  

“Do you think you’ll love me forever?” I ask. 

You chuckle, satisfied. It is the question you knew I’d ask; it is the question I always ask.  

You say, “I think if we ever break up, I’ll spend the rest of my life waiting for you.” 

 

---

 

Growing up, my father’s favorite story to tell was the one where he met my mother. I always loved the way he told it. He made her sound exquisite—a rare emerald in a sea of diamonds.  

“Your mother,” he always starts with a conceited chuckle, “boy, did she want me!”  

“Eric,” my mother scolds, shaking her head. But she’s smiling. Of course she’s smiling. She’s sitting next to him; she’s always sitting next to him. We’d be cuddled up together on the couch, my brothers and I hanging off my parents’ limbs like drooping tree branches. We’d all fit on the couch, but only barely. We’d pretend like it’s comfortable, although we know it’s not. But no one moves; no one ever moves.  

“Right, so, your mother shows up at my door. She’s just heard that I am going to be her Co-Resident Assistant. And, well, you know your mother.” He cups his mouth between his hands, whisper-shouts, “Not the best at teamwork.”  

“Eric,” my mother scolds again. This time, her voice is clipped. But she’s still smiling. Of course she’s smiling.  

“Okay, okay. Well, she shows up at my door with this big plate of ziti. Her hair up in a bun. Wearing a big, baggy sweatshirt. Black yoga pants. She’ll tell you she looked like a mess; I know she will. But, man, do you wanna know what I thought?”  

“What?! What did you think?!” my brothers and I chant, giggling in childish adoration.  

“I thought, ‘This is the woman I’m going to marry. This is my wife.’” He hooks an arm around my mother and kisses her softly.  

“Is that how you felt, Mommy?” I ask, tugging on her leg.  

“No,” my mother chuckles. “I just thought he might be hungry.”

 

---

 

Everything I know about love I learned from my parents. At least, mostly. Conventional, heteronormative love. Love as a skeleton—as a ghost that haunts my house.  

My parents met in college—1994. They were Resident Assistants together at William Paterson College in Wayne, New Jersey. My father transferred in after taking a couple of years off school following the passing of his mother; my mother was a sophomore when they met. My father, twenty-four, and my mother, twenty-one.  

They were friends first. My father likes to joke now that my mother knew what she wanted immediately, but she was just too stubborn to admit it.  

“I knew she’d come around,” he’d say.  

“He didn’t know shit,” my mother would say.  

They fell in love quickly, of course, spending every day with one another. My father making friends with my mother’s friends, my mother doing her best with his. They did everything together. And even then, for about a week at the beginning of the relationship, my mother broke up with my father.  

“She was scared,” my father would taunt. “Scared because she liked me.”  

“No, I was scared because you were an idiot,” my mother would say.   

My father had his quip, a partier in all respects—drugs, alcohol. He had cheated on almost all his girlfriends before he met my mother, was arrested twice, and while he was still in school at the University of Coastal Florida, blacked out more times than he could recall. He lost his mother when he was only twenty-one and watched his father remarry just six months later. He was doing his best; he was always doing his best.  

“Couldn’t get my shit together,” as he would so eloquently tell me. But then he met my mother.  

My mother’s upbringing was none the gentler—the youngest of two brothers. The oldest, her senior by eleven years, and her second, Bipolar and Schizophrenic. During a time when mental health was largely disregarded, my mother’s family managed as best they could. But, given the few resources they had at their disposal, it wasn’t easy, and my mother felt the reverberations of her parents’ exhaustion every day. Years later—well after my mother and father married—my mother’s father would die of a heart attack, and her mother would die of lung cancer. She’d never smoked a day in her life.  

So my father and my mother were—and largely still are—broken in their own ways. And though their story may be more like a messy, poorly stitched together sweater, it is the mess that makes their love so beautiful. So admirable. Because it never mattered the size of the sweater was or what color it was or if the sleeves were the right length or the collar the right width. They liked the damn sweater; they liked it so much they promised “until death do us part,” to wear it every day. And that is how I’ve been raised to define love.  

Someone—something—that chooses you, every day. Until death do you part.

 

---

 

You chose me, and maybe that’s why I chose you, too. At seventeen it was easy to choose you. Shielded in our tiny, conservative town, you were the sun and I was spinning in your orbit. Nothing existed outside of you—outside of us. And that was nice, for a while. Until it wasn’t. Until it couldn’t be.  

“You can’t go to Susquehanna just because I’m going!” I yell at you. We are standing in your room, the envelope torn open on your desk, the acceptance letter gripped tightly in your hand.  

You tell me you applied two months ago; you got the acceptance letter the same day I received mine. You thought about telling me earlier, but didn’t know what to say.  

 I could puke. 

“Why the fuck wouldn’t you want me there?” You pace the floor. One hand on your head, the other crinkling the edges of the letter. I see the orange and maroon font from across the room—Congratulations, Riverhawk!  

“Because,” I stutter. “Because this is my school. They don’t even have a PT program.”  

“I don’t even know that I want to go the PT route.”  

“You literally just told me last week that you did.” I cross my arms over my chest.  

“I don’t even remember what I had for breakfast this morning and you’re trying to use something I said last week against me?”  

“When it has to do with our life? Yes,” I say, exasperated. “I am.”  

“I thought this…” You motion a hand between us. You’re several inches away from me, but I can feel the gravity of your touch. I can feel its weight; it’s a boulder in the pit of my stomach. My head is spinning. “I thought this was our life, Stef.”  

 “This is our life right now!” 

You stare blankly at me. The letter dangles lifelessly from your tired grasp. For a moment, I think you’ll drop it. But you don’t; you never do.  

“How are we going to do this?” Your voice is softer now, coated in muffled sadness. You drop your head boyishly; you won’t even look at me. This isn’t easy for you; I can feel that. But I wish you’d listen. I wish you’d even try to understand.  

I cross the room, tuck myself into the crook beneath your chin. I inhale your familiar scent—pine, warm cider. I kiss your chest, take a deep breath.  

“We just are,” I whisper into your neck. “We just are because I don’t know what I’d do if we don’t.”  

You sigh, wrap your arms around my waist. You squeeze me—tight—the way you do when you’re anxious. You rest your lips on the top of my head, but you don’t kiss me. You just rest there. I think about telling you it’ll be okay—that we’ll be okay. But I don’t. I don’t want to lie.  

“You know, it wouldn’t be that weird if I went with you to Susquehanna,” you mumble into my hair.  

“Babe,” I whisper. I try to shimmy from your grasp, but you only pull me in tighter.  

“I know,” you say. Your body is cemented into the floor beneath us, and your muscles relax in my embrace. I listen as your breathing slows and your heart rate steadies. “Just… can we stay here for another minute?”  

I sigh and nestle back into your chest. “We can stay here forever.”

 

---

 

When I met her, the world collapsed. My world collapsed. Her short auburn hair, the bangs that hung just above her eyebrows. When she smiled, her dimples reminded me of yours. But different, of course. Her eyes were a glassy blue— reflective. I saw myself in them. Your eyes were always dark, engulfing. I lost myself in them.  

We hit it off immediately. In our freshman year dormitory, we lived just down the hall from each other. I spent every night in her room. We watched corny romance movies and retold stories of our past. We talked like old friends and fit like my favorite jeans. Jeans I never had to stretch out; jeans that just fit.

We told everyone we were best friends—we were best friends. We shared inside jokes, laughed at inappropriate times, and cried only in the safety of the other’s arms. We snuck out of parties early to order pizza and cuddle drunkenly in bed. We were dreamers, romantics, people-pleasers.

We both had boyfriends.

“I don’t know if I can be with him anymore,” she tells me one night in September. We are eating dinner on the floor of my dorm; my roommate is not yet back from class.

“So don’t,” I say, in between bites of sushi.

“I can’t break up with him over the phone. That’s cruel.”

“I didn’t say you had to do it over the phone.” I shove another piece of sushi in my mouth, watch as she pushes her empty container away from her. I sigh. “Didn’t you say he goes to school only, like, an hour from here?”  

She nods, picking at a crumb crusted into my rug. I fight the urge to swat her hand away.  

“Okay,” I say, pushing my container toward her. I always give her the last piece of sushi; she takes it happily without a word. She doesn’t have to thank me; she never does. “So, let’s go.”  

She almost chokes on the sushi. “Are you insane, Stef?”  

I laugh. “Not right now, no.” 

“We have class tomorrow.” She stands, tossing our empty containers into my roommate’s trashcan.  

“Not until, like, noon.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” I lean back onto the rug, let my legs fall in a heap at the side of my body. “You’ve been complaining about him for weeks now.”  

“Who are you to judge me for that?” She wipes her hands on her jeans, hops up on my bed, looking down at me on the floor. I see the jealousy in her eyes; I know I’m not making that up.

“I love him,” I say, my voice sharp. “You know that.”

You and I had been fighting. A lot. You didn’t like it when I’d go out to parties or stay up late without texting you. You didn’t like that I could go hours without texting you; you didn’t like that I was living a life you knew nothing about. You didn’t like her or my other friends or my classes—especially my Women and Gender Studies class—or my new nose piercing. You didn’t like my impulsive tattoos or my newfound love of literature. You didn’t like my writing, but you hated most that I didn’t write about you. God, I wonder what you’d say now.

She falls back on my bed, nestles into my pillow. Her hair is a tangled mess, and her mascara smeared from where she rubbed her eyes earlier. She’ll complain about it, but she won’t stop rubbing her eyes. I’ll tell her she’s stubborn. She’ll tell me, “You love it.” I’ll laugh, say nothing. But I’ll agree; I’ll always agree.

“I’ll break up with Jordan when you finally break up with Kaden,” she says.

“I’m not going to break up with Kaden.”

“Okay. So, I’m not going to break up with Jordan.”

I stand up, closing the space between us by jumping dramatically on top of her. My one leg dangles off the bed, but the other is wrapped tightly around her calf. My arms are draped over her head, my ring caught in a knot of her hair. She laughs and tells me I’m crushing her. I laugh, tell her she’s dramatic. She grabs my dangling leg and fits it in the gap between her thighs; my heart is racing. I wonder if she can feel it.  

“I’m not moving until you tell me you’ll do it,” I taunt.

“Better get comfortable then.” She shifts her weight beneath me; I tumble awkwardly off her chest and into the crook of her arm. My head rests on her shoulder; I can feel her heartbeat.

We lay like that for a while. Comfortable silence. Everything with her was comfortable. She strokes the small of my wrist—that bone that connects hand and arm. I tend to pinch that spot when I get nervous; she’s noticed. Of course, she’s noticed.

“You know,” she says, sitting up slightly. I shimmy from her embrace, leaning up against the wall behind us instead. “Maybe I will.”

“Will what?”  

“Dump him.”

“I’m not dumping Kaden.” 

She laughs. “Not yet.”

I roll my eyes; I pretend she’s not right. I pretend I haven’t thought about leaving you since the moment I met her. I pretend she and I are exactly what we tell people—best friends. I pretend I don’t love her. Not like that, anyway.

“Will you go with me?” she asks.

“Yeah, and sit on the floor while you dump your boyfriend?” I chuckle sarcastically.  

“No, I just mean,” she says, sighing. “Will you wait in the car? You know, while I do it? I just don’t want to drive there all alone.”   

I look at her. The smudged mascara; the wrinkles in her T-shirt; the smear of soy sauce just below her bottom lip. She is, undoubtedly, beautiful. I wasn’t sure I’d ever had a friend I’d loved so deeply, so completely. I wasn’t sure if she knew just how deeply, how completely. I wasn’t sure I’d ever tell her. But I could show her.

There is nothing I wouldn’t do for her.  

“Sure,” I say, shrugging nonchalantly. “Sure, I’ll go with you.”

 

---

 

“I think bisexuality is made up,” my father declares one night at dinner. I am thirteen. I know nothing about sex; I know nothing about me. But I know people; I know love. I know he’s being insensitive.

Bisexual. Before then, I’d heard of the word but had never met someone who used it. Someone who breathed life into it, someone who made it a real, tangible thing. Bisexuality as a person. As life. All this time, it’d just been a word.

But then my cousin came out. And then my childhood best friend. And then my teammate. And then my coach. And then, and then, and then… 

Bisexual.

“Sexuality can’t be ‘made up,’ Dad,” I say. My mother is at the other end of the table, my brothers just across from me. “People just feel how they feel.”  

“No one can possibly be attracted to everyone,” my father says. He chews his food, takes a swig of his beer. “That can’t possibly be real.”  

“It’s not that you’re attracted to everyone, Eric,” my mother says, hesitantly. “It’s that, you know, you don’t limit yourself. Right, Stef?” She winks at me; she thinks she’s saving me, but she’s actually only making it worse. She’s never been one to successfully shut down a conversation, especially not with my father.  

“Limit yourself!” My father laughs. “Lisa, c’mon.”

“Well, it’s the truth, isn’t it?” My mother looks to my brothers for back-up, but they are busy shoving their faces full of spaghetti—not interested, even slightly, in the conversation at hand. Growing up in a loud, Italian household, it’s either master the art of selective hearing, or die trying. My brothers have always been better than I.

“Some people are just attracted to both men and women,” I mumble, not looking at either of my parents. I push the half-eaten meatball around on my plate. My fork scrapes against the ceramic; I see my mother wince from the corner of my eye.

“Alright,” my father concedes. “Alright, well, maybe I’m just not there yet.”

 

---

 

She breaks up with her boyfriend on a Tuesday, mid-afternoon; I break up with you only a few hours later.  

The drive isn’t bad. We recruit one of our other friends to join us. That way, she says, I won’t have to sit and wait all by myself. Thoughtful, I think; although I wouldn’t have minded some alone time.  

By the time we get there, I’m rather glad to have some company. She’s been in his dorm room for over an hour—I can’t help but panic. Is he begging her to take him back? Is she considering it? I should’ve gone with her; I should’ve been there to hold her accountable.  

“She’s been in there a while,” I say to my friend. We are in the back seat; the windows are rolled down, and we are crouching just below the front seats. That way, if he walks her out, he won’t see us staking them out.  

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Well, I didn’t think it’d be quick.”  

“Yeah.” I shake my head. “Yeah, no, of course. But, like, he was so awful to her. What do you think they’re talking about?”  

He shrugs. “Dunno. I mean, they were together for two years. So, I can’t imagine this is easy for either of them.”  

I nod, silently chastise myself. Of course this is hard; I’m being insensitive.  

“What about you?” he asks, nudging my knee playfully with his.  

“What do you mean?”  

“Your boyfriend,” he says, a clip of sarcasm in his tone. “You breaking up with him, too?”  

I sigh, let my knees hang heavy against his. He knows how unhappy I’ve been; he’s seen it as clear as she has. But my situation is different—at least, that’s what I tell myself. She has to break up with him—he is abusive, manipulative. He makes her miserable. But you—well, you don’t make me miserable. And you certainly aren’t abusive. You just haven’t been making me particularly happy lately. But that’s not a reason to break up, right?  

 “I don’t know,” I say, honestly.  

“You don’t have to drag it on, you know.” He adjusts slightly, and my knees fall in between his open legs. I quickly pull them into my chest. “Do you even still like him?”  

“I love him.”  

“I didn’t ask you that.”

I groan, toss my head back for dramatic emphasis. “But that’s how I feel. I love him. You don’t just break up with someone you love.”  

“No, but you do if it’s not healthy anymore,” he says. He looks at me long and hard, analyzing my every reaction. Even the slight rise of my eyebrows; the flatness of my lips. He knows me, too.

“It’s not unhealthy,” I mumble.

“Yeah.” He chuckles sarcastically, looks over his shoulder, checking for her. But she’s still inside; of course, she’s still inside. “Whatever you say.”  

“He just misses me.”  

He looks at me, bats his eyelashes judgmentally. He doesn’t need to say anything; the disappointment on his face says enough.  

“Okay, fine,” I agree. “Fine, maybe he hasn’t been the greatest these last couple of weeks. But it’s the distance. We’ve never been away from each other for this long.”  

“Well, you’re going to have to be away from each other for much longer than just this.” He kicks my foot. “If you want to stay with him.”  

“I know,” I mumble. “I know.”

And before he can lecture me further, we catch a glimpse of her auburn ponytail swishing back and forth as she walks closer to the car. A below average looking man strides confidently next to her. He’s holding her hand (why the fuck is he holding her hand?) and whispering something in her ear. She laughs, but I know that laugh. She’s being polite; she’s not laughing like she does with me—with any of our friends. This is it, I realize. They’re really over.

“Get down,” I hiss. And we do, just in time. He never sees us. But she does; of course she does. We smile knowingly at one another—only briefly—before she gives him a tense hug goodbye. She doesn’t say anything else, only opens the driver’s side door, climbs in behind the wheel, starts the car, and drives away silently.  

He watches her go; of course he watches her go.

I pop up from my spot behind the driver’s seat as we gain speed, turning quickly out of Pennsylvania College of Technology. I giggle manically. “No fucking way!”

“How’d it go?” my friend asks her.

But she doesn’t answer at first; she only smiles, turns up the music, and pulls over on the nearest side street. She waits for my friend and I to pry ourselves from our hiding spots—I quickly hop out of the car and jump back into the front seat while he stays in the back.  

“So?” I say, as we resume driving. I reach for the volume knob, ready to turn Kelly Clarkson down. But she grabs my hand instead and pulls it into her chest. I feel her heart racing to the beat of the song—Since You Been Gone blares from the speakers. She rolls down the windows with her free hand, leaving the wheel unattended for only a second. The car swerves gently; she steadies it almost immediately.

The chorus sounds from the car:

Since you been gone, I can breathe for the first time. I’m so movin’ on, yeah, yeah. Thanks to you, now I get, I get what I want… 

“So,” she says. She has to yell over the music, but she’s smiling. She’s really, truly, smiling. She glances at me out of her peripheral, then quickly at our friend from the rearview mirror. “Who’s hungry?”

 

---

 

I don’t think I ever told you about the way I looked at women. I don’t think I knew how I was looking at women. But you had an inkling; I know you did.  

You joked that I couldn’t be friends with a girl casually. You said the way Clara and I behaved around one another—sleepovers in a shared twin bed; drunken compliments we swore meant nothing beyond their implications—was just, “a step below gay,” and that my friend Trish looked at me with “fuck me eyes.” You told me you thought it was strange that I’d rather stay over at Clara’s than at yours. You thought it was deranged that, when I’d visit you at school, I’d say things like, “I don’t want to have sex tonight.”  

“We haven’t seen each other in weeks, Stef.”  

“I know,” I’d say.  

“So, why don’t you want to have sex?” You’d kiss my neck; try your best to seduce me. Just like you used to, when it was just you and me. And I’d feel you; I always could. But now, our bodies speak different languages. I can’t understand yours; you can’t understand mine. We look like fools trying so hard— we look like damn fools.  

We stopped having sex once I met her. Or maybe we didn’t. I’m not sure. Either way, that’s not the point. Do you remember having sex? Because I don’t. 

 

---

 

I break up with you once we get back to campus. We break up over the phone. You tell me you’re going to be sick. I tell you I already am.  

“Don’t do it, then,” you beg. “I don’t understand.” 

I purse my lips, suck in a deep breath. “It’s not about what I want.”  

There is a long silence on the other end of the phone. I tap my fingers impatiently on the top of my bare knee. Count my inhalations, remind myself to let it go.  

I don’t know what I want; I never do. Somedays, I’m content knowing you’ll never leave me. We will survive this distance—even if most of it is spent bickering—and we’ll be rewarded with an entire summer together. Rinse and repeat for the next three years, and we’ve made it out alive. You’ll propose and I’ll say yes. We’ll get married, move in together. Have a few kids. We’ll be happy—you’ll be happy. I’ll be satisfied, I think. You’re safe. You’re all I’ve ever known. How could I not be satisfied?  

I think about my parents. They’re steady; of course they’re steady. They love each other quietly, never branch out beyond comfort. They are satisfied knowing they’ve upheld that promise they made twenty-something years ago. They are satisfied knowing they are that promise they made twenty-something years ago. Until death do us part. They are satisfied—is that all I have to look forward to?  

I think about her—no, maybe not her, but the idea of her. The desire. The fleeting possibility that, maybe, I haven’t discovered every part of myself yet. Maybe you are just you, and I am just me, and she is just a key. To a door I’ve long kept closed—locked. God, I’ve done everything to keep it locked. Closed.  

“I just wish, for once, it would be,” you finally say.  

A shaky breath of air escapes before I can suck it back in; she whips her head around from her place in the driver’s seat. Our other friend sits next to her; they are watching YouTube videos with the volume on low. It’s not turned off completely, though. So, as I rattle my brain for the right words to say to you, I am distracted by the buzz of distant voices and melodies of quiet music.  

I shake my head, meet her blue eyes. They are a reflective sliver of light in the darkness. Mine, empty. She gives me a nod of encouragement; I keep going. 

“I love you,” I manage, my voice barely a whisper.  

“If you loved me, you wouldn’t do this.”  

I shook my head feverishly, biting the inside of my cheek until I could taste the blood. A warm reminder that something—anything—inside of me is still alive.  

Is this really what I want? I love you; I know I love you.  

“I need to go,” I say.  

“Yeah,” you mumble. “Yeah.”  

Cicadas. The muffled sound of passersby on your end of the phone. You’re on a bench— I remember. You’re on a strange bench, on a strange campus, where everyone and no one look familiar. The crack of knuckles. The white of my knee as I dig my fingers in, harder.  

And yet, I want you to ask me again.  

Ask me again.  

“So, I guess,” you begin.  

“Yeah,” I finish.  

Please, ask me one more time.  

A car whizzes by. I swallow hard as I open my mouth to say it, one last time.  

“I—”  

The line goes dead. I leave the phone there, pressed against my sweaty ear, until she reaches behind me, pries it out of my hand.  

“You okay?” she asks hesitantly. She doesn’t start the car yet. She doesn’t move; the right side of her face leans on the edge of her seat. She hugs her legs to her chest, arms wrapped around her knees. She can’t be comfortable, I think.  

I’m not comfortable.  

“Yeah.” I shake my head, force a soft smile. “All good.”

 

---

 

For so long, I was you. I was us. I let you define all the parts of myself I hadn’t yet come to know; you filled in the blanks. You reminded me that when I wasn’t brave enough to be myself, I could always be you. I could always be us.  

This was safe. This was comforting.  

This wasn’t love.  

When I met her, I flourished. I found my footing in ways I never did with you—I started writing, reading, philosophizing. I became acutely aware of my own emotions, my own desires. My own life. I started meditating. You were gone, but she was here. You were gone, but I was here.  

But, of course, this didn’t happen all at once; nothing ever happens all at once.

For one year, I let my feelings for her drown out the noise of my heartbreak. Platonic or not, I needed it. I needed her.

“You are not your parents,” she tells me. We are nineteen—sophomores in college; we are roommates. It’s a Wednesday night—well after midnight—and I can’t sleep. I just found out that you are dating someone new. You blocked my number. I am devastated, and so, she cradles me on my bed; of course she does. In the darkness of a quiet September night, the blue hue of her laptop screen is the only light illuminating our pretzeled bodies. “Or Kaden, or your work, or your anxieties.”

I nod my head sheepishly, burrow my face in my hands. I want to believe her, I really do. But in that moment, I miss you—I miss us. I don’t know why, but I want her to hold me, not because it’s her, but because it reminds me so much of you. I let myself think of you.  

“If I’m not my parents,” I say, “then I have no idea who I’m supposed to be.”

“How wonderful,” she says. She rubs circles down the center of my back. Breathes gently down my neck. She never presses her lips to my head; she never holds me quite as tight as you used to. And I wonder, for the briefest moment, if that’s what I love so much about her. 

“You get to be you,” she says. “And who doesn’t love you?”  

“A lot of people.”  

“Don’t be self-depreciating.” 

“Don’t make it so easy.”  

“I love you,” she says, suddenly. She squeezes my shoulder twice. My head rests on her chest; I can feel her beating heart. “Can I say that?”  

“I think I like women,” I blurt. And I don’t let her react before I tear myself from her embrace, clasping a mouth over my hand.  

“Wait,” I say. I let my fingers linger on my lips as I speak—a nervous habit. “Wait, wait, wait. I didn’t mean that.”

“It’s totally cool if you do,” she says. She shrugs, crosses her legs beneath her. “I’ve kind of always thought that, anyway.”  

I sit up on my knees. I feel my underarms sweating, my face growing hot.  

“No.” I shake my head. “No way.”  

She laughs. “Why the fuck are you being so weird? You know I don’t care. If you haven’t noticed—I also like women.”  

I want to say something, but I’m paralyzed. Of course I know she likes women; that’s the problem.  

“And anyway, if you’re worried about making me uncomfortable, or whatever, don’t.” She shrugs, picks at a loose thread on her sock. “I know we’re just friends. I could never imagine being anything else with you. That’s gross. It’d be like, I dunno, dating my sister or something.” 

My stomach lurches; my heart sinks into the pits of my stomach. Her sister.  

“Yeah,” I say, forcing a soft smile. I chuckle; I hope it sounds natural. “Yeah, disgusting.”  

She gets up from my bed, crosses the room to climb into her own. Shaking my head, I pull off my socks and slide on my slippers. I grab my pajamas from the basket beneath my bed, my toothbrush from its place on my dresser.  

“I’m gonna go brush my teeth and stuff,” I say, just barely hiding the tremor in my voice. I’ve never told anyone—ever— that I like women, and she’s acting like it’s just another Wednesday. I’ve never been shot down before I’d even gotten a chance to profess my love. So mercilessly. So effortlessly.  

The room is spinning.  

“Okay,” she says, eyes glued to her phone. I shuffle awkwardly to the door, leaving my phone on my bed.  

“Hey,” she calls out, just as I’ve placed my hand on the knob. I turn my head slightly, catching a glimpse of her from my peripheral. She’s sitting up cross-legged, on her bed. “I’m sorry Kaden’s such a dick.”  

Right. Kaden.   

“Yeah.” I shrug. “Is what it is.”  

“You know, you’ll find the right one eventually. Someday. You know that, right?” She smiles sweetly, tilts her head like a puppy.  

“Yeah.” The knot tightens; the room stops abruptly. I’m going to be sick. “Yeah, you’re right.”  

I shut the door before she can say anything else; I spend the next five minutes trying to cry. I forget to brush my teeth.  

 

---

 

I am twenty-one-years-old when I finally tell my father.  

She and I don’t talk anymore. She has a boyfriend now, and only when fate thrusts us together in the same space do I see her for more than a few fleeting moments.  

And I’m angry. Riddled with regret. I never told her I loved her; I never told her I yearned for her, needed her. I never told her that the drunken moments we shared were always more than that, to me; I never told her that, though I never let her hold my face, I let her hold my heart. You might have my face, but she forever has my heart.  

Sometimes I let myself wonder what would have happened if I’d just told her how I felt. Maybe she’d have told me that she loved me too; maybe she’d have breathed a sigh of relief, asked me, “What took you so long?”  

I let myself think of her, but I don’t call her. I’ll never call her. What does that say about me?  

“I went on a date,” I tell my father. We are on our way to Target; I am newly home for summer break. And for the last three weeks, I’d been talking to a girl. Not her, of course. You know this; I told you this.  

“Oh yeah?” He clicks his turn signal on; we pull into the parking lot. He doesn’t look at me.  

I nod my head, hum a pathetic acknowledgement from between my tight lips.  

“And?”  

My father and I never talk about my dating life. He hardly cared to get to know you and never minded much after we’d broken up. My bringing up a date was strange; our awkwardness was merely a reaction to the uncomfortable situation I’d flung us into. But I keep going anyway.  

“She was nice,” I say, fumbling with the hem of my sweatshirt. I don’t meet his eyes, but I can feel his sidelong glance. I keep going. “Really nice.”  

He coughs—clears his throat. But I ramble on before he can say anything.  

“I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. “Because I like guys, I think. But I guess, it’s like, I don’t see myself sharing a bed with a man someday. Like, the thought of it makes my skin crawl.”  

My father sighs, chuckles a little. “Well, yeah, that’s not good,” He shrugs. “I get it, though. I don’t know why anyone would be into us.”  

I laugh. I’m not sure if he takes me seriously. Or if he even believes me, at all. But it’s not my job to make him believe; it’s not my job to make him understand. He knows—I told him, and now he knows. That’s all I can make him do.  

And so, I let the nerves slide down the back of my neck, run off my body, and seep into the seat. They are not mine to carry anymore.  

We don’t speak of it again—not the next day, or in the many months after. And since then, it’s gotten easier to tell others. My twin brother, my college roommate, my childhood best friend. My mother. No one person took it the same, but I never would have expected that. I carry it differently every day; I am split in two.  

And that’s why I am writing to you. For you. 

 For me.  

Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe it’s denial. Maybe it’s both. Or maybe—really—it’s none of those things at all. Regardless, after I tell my father, I think of you more. Especially after I tell my mother. She brushes me off. Tells me, “It’s just a phase;” I wonder if you’d agree. Because you know you loved me, and you are certain that I loved you. You know it; I know it. So, how can this be? How can I love her, and you, at the same time?  

Will you be angry with me? Will you tell me, you told me so? Call up your friends, tell them, “It’s true! Stef’s had the hots for Clara all along! Ha!” They will laugh; I know they will. You might, too. It’ll be worse than breaking up. It’ll be a coming together and falling apart, all at once.  

Or will you let me cry; will you let me apologize? Will you hug me, tell me it’s okay? Will you tell me that you love me anyway? Will you remind me that you always have? Will you run a calloused hand through the tangles of my hair, shush me into silence?  

I don’t know why I’m pretending that I don’t know what you’ll do, because I do; of course I know what you’ll do. You’ll hug me. You’ll pull me tight into your chest, rest your lips on the top of my head. And you won’t tell me that you love me; you won’t remind me that you always have. No, you’ll only ask to stay there, for just a minute longer. And I’ll know what that means— I love you. I always have. So I’ll tell you, “Yes, of course.” I always do.  

But this time, I won’t promise forever. Because now I’ll know, and so will you; we were fools for thinking forever was ever ours to hold.