Our love story is one of my favorites.
It’s been three years without you, and after three years with you, I feel I can finally write about us. I’ve known you for a lifetime, and it’ll probably take a lifetime to forget.
Where did our love story begin? Was it in 1st grade when you moved here and everyone was so excited to have a new boy in class? And by here, I mean there, because you’re still there, and I left a long time ago. Everyone loved you because you were tall, outgoing, and friendly to everyone you met. You were the kid who somehow became the teacher’s pet while breaking all the rules behind their back. Was it when you were cast as the Ugly Duckling in the school play, and we all knew you were anything but? I played a skunk—the real ugly duckling—who taught your character that it didn’t matter what anyone else thought because your real friends would love you no matter what. I spent the remainder of our relationship trying to teach you that exact thing.
Was it in 2nd grade when you had a crush on my best friend and brought her back a necklace from your family vacation? She gushed to me about the inside jokes you two shared on the bus, and I laughed away my jealousy, a tradition I carried on into adulthood.
Was it in 3rd grade when you had a crush on another one of my best friends, and she bragged to everyone about how smitten she was that she got to go to your house and watch scary movies when your parents weren’t home?
Was it in 4th grade when by some miracle the teacher sat us next to each other and you debated that if the prefix “re” means “again” and suffix “spect” means “look,” then “respect” means “look again”? I thought that was the most intelligent thing anyone had said all year.
Was it in 5th grade when your first girlfriend was my best friend? We cast a spell under the full moon to get you to fall in love with her, and I hid in a hotel closet while she whispered all the details of your first kiss to me. I teased her about how steamy and sweaty it must have been in your parents’ hot tub, another way to laugh through my jealousy.
Was it in 6th grade when you had a crush on one of the new girls that moved to town? Was it in 7th grade when you moved on to her twin sister?
Was it in 8th grade when I broke up with my first boyfriend and you offered your condolences and texted me all summer to hang out at the beach?
Was it in 9th grade when you kissed me at the homecoming dance and ran away, only to text me the next day to confess you still had feelings for the twin sister you dated the year before? You hoped we could still be friends and that I would be able to forgive and forget while I was held hostage every day after school at play practice watching you two flirt. You felt bad, I know. But you didn’t know how to make it right while still satiating your teenage boy hedonism. So you told me to slap you. I didn’t want to, but you insisted, and all the rage and jealousy I had been laughing away since 1st grade bubbled up, and I hit you hard across the face. I cried, you cried, we laughed it off, and after that, we had an understanding.
Was it in 10th grade when you dated the twin sister on and off and asked me for relationship advice? Was it during one of your breaks when we lost our virginity to each other, and I started dating someone else a week later? How did it feel to finally want me the one time I wasn’t available?
Was it in 11th grade when you dated my best friend again, the one you gave necklaces to in 1st grade, and you both complained to me in private about how much you wanted out of the relationship?
Was it in 12th grade when you dated the twin sister again, and I cornered her at the homecoming dance and warned her to be honest with you and not break your heart? My intuition must have picked up on something, because though she was at least three inches taller than me, she cowered before me and burst into tears as soon as she walked away. She confessed that night that she had been cheating on you, and you broke up. You thanked me for that later.
For me, this was all foreplay for the day our love really began. It was the new moon in Gemini, your natal moon placement. I hadn’t had a cherry coke in so long. It came in a little pink can that cost 99 cents. The cola was as red as the artificial dye in my hair. I don’t drink soda, and I wouldn’t have unless you bought it for me. I don’t like the biting sweet of soda. The carbonation sits in my guts wrong. But that day, soda was appropriate; you were the biting sweet I needed to jolt me back to life. You filled my stomach with tiny bubbles that excited me all day. I loved you long before that moment, and I knew I would love you forever. After all we had been through together, we drove to the river and shared a joint, dangling our feet over the edge of the universe. In another life, you and I would nurture this love as long as our hearts were still beating. In another life, we would never let the other be alone.
This was the first entry in the journal you read later that year where I complained about how hard it was living with you. I agreed to live with you before I learned that you grew up with a maid and you never learned to cook or clean for yourself. Maybe if you had read the first entry and you knew how infatuated I was with you for the majority of my life, you wouldn’t have blown up our relationship over one journal entry. I wrote the only thing keeping me in our relationship was our lease, which was partially true. The other thing keeping me was fear—fear of what your absence might reveal about me. Because if you left, was I truly unworthy of love?
The day you bought me the cherry coke, I knew I had it bad. We were about to graduate high school, and everything we had been through seemed so small and childlike compared to this moment. All those years growing up were like movements in a symphony building toward this magnificent crescendo.
The night before graduation, I cheated on my boyfriend with you in the hot tub where you had your first kiss with my best friend in 5th grade. I saw the texts from my boyfriend asking where I was, apologizing if he had done anything lately to make me distant. I swallowed my guilt and stuffed it somewhere in my body I knew I wouldn’t find for years. Because it was you! You were worth burning bridges for. You were worth destroying years of earned trust and built intimacy. Because I always wanted you, but you never wanted me. I was the “cool girl” for too long. I had played the “girl next door” role so well. Hell, your mom loved me before you did. She still calls me on my birthday. But now that you finally saw how beautiful I was, how glorious I was, how radiant and vibrant and purposeful I could make your life. I couldn’t let you slip away now.
You took acid before you gave your graduation speech as class president and rambled about chairs for a long time. My boyfriend sat in the audience with his family and a bouquet of flowers, ignorant of the fact we were kissing in the band room before any of this happened. The ceremony ended, everyone scattered, and I broke up with my boyfriend in the car on the way home. I left him in a grocery store parking lot and blasted Freedom by George Michael as I sped off. He really is the victim in this story, and I hope he finds true love that never treats him the way I did.
We went to our respected graduation parties, and you called me to come over where we kissed on your bed under the red light. You got a text from your best friend, exclaiming he was going to “break some knees.” You diffused the situation and told him we would come over right away to see what was wrong. Apparently, your best friend’s girlfriend, who was also my friend, got drunk with her friends. Really drunk. And one of the friends she was with was the twin sister who you dated and broke up with so much. They were drinking with an older man–and by older I mean ten years, but when you’re 18 years old, it’s highly inappropriate for a 28-year-old man to invite you to his house for drinks. He took advantage of them, or tried to; I’m not sure of the whole story. They were so drunk and blubbering that I could hardly make out a word they said.
But the twin sister, your ex, sat on a park bench at 11 o’clock at night with her arms and legs crossed, glaring at me. I asked if she was okay. She gave a slow, silent nod. She asked if I was with you. I said yes. She scoffed, rolled her eyes, and blinked back tears. Unbeknownst to me, the two of you had hooked up a few weeks ago. You must have been making your rounds saying your goodbyes to all the loves that once were before you bought me the cherry coke. She texted you furiously after that night claiming to be pregnant and that it was yours and she was getting an abortion; she just wanted you to feel guilty about it. And you did feel guilty. You felt horrible. She tapped into your absolute worst nightmare, preyed on the Achilles heel of your fear. I told you she was probably lying, and you said she was probably lying, but even the fact there was the slightest chance she wasn’t lying turned your stomach into knots. She came clean years later and admitted she was lying, which felt like a weight off your shoulders. But I just couldn’t imagine how in the world I was so jealous of someone who was so insecure they felt they had to come up with a heinous lie like that just to put a wedge in the relationship she couldn’t have.
We spent the summer together adventuring through new cities along the riverside. We soaked up as many moments as we could being in love. And in love we were. I must admit, I look for that love in your eyes in every person I meet.
We moved in together in a small ground floor apartment next door to your best friend and your best friend’s girlfriend, who was also my friend. We kissed, we cleaned, we smoked weed. We danced, we fought, we made up. We fought more, you moved out, the pandemic happened. We didn’t know anyone else in the city, we were lonely, we got back together. You moved to the neighboring city, we texted every day, called often, and saw each other every weekend. We spent time with each other’s families over the holidays. We established a routine that kept us in limbo between the comforts of childhood and the daunting expectations of adulthood.
When did our love story end? Was it when I made twice the effort to drive an hour to see you on the weekends because you had car trouble, you couldn’t afford gas, you had too much homework, or whatever excuse it was that particular week? Was it when you told me not to worry about your roommate that had a crush on you, but she was the first person you slept with after you broke up with me over the phone? That’s when I knew it was over. I was crushed. No amount of negotiation or apologies or kisses filled with empty promises could take that back. I spent weeks sobbing in my closet listening to sad music in my headphones. I don’t know how long I would have stayed with you if you hadn’t broken up with me. I would have stayed with you and taught you empathy and patience and humility and basic hygiene and how to cook. I would have been the Oedipus complex you were subconsciously searching for, and likely still are. I would have stayed with you forever, even though you didn’t deserve it.
Was it when I dated your best friend after he broke up with his girlfriend, who was also my friend, in a rage of vengeance? You had always gone after my friends since we were six years old. And the first time you got a taste of your own medicine—phew! You couldn’t take it! I think it obliterated a part of your ego that can never be recovered. You dropped out of college and moved back home because I think you realized that without me, you had no business being here. I think without me, you felt your life had no real direction. You moved back to our hometown and dated my best friend, the one you had your first kiss with in the hot tub. She deserved better, and I hope that’s how it ended. She was starting her own business and had been an independent adult longer than she ever should have been, a journey you were just learning how to navigate.
Was it when I wrote you a heartfelt letter apologizing for everything and asking if we could still be friends, only to have the slit-open envelope returned to me in the mail?
Was it after you broke up with her, I broke up with him, and you texted me on New Year’s Eve 30 minutes to midnight gushing about how sorry you were that I gave you everything you ever wanted but you still wanted more? You said we could meet up for a cup of coffee if I was ever in town, but when I was in town, you had to ask permission from your new girlfriend to see me. You must have not gotten that permission, because you never saw me, and last I heard, you’re still with her. You’re living with her apparently.
I have this vision of me and all my friends you ever dated getting together at the restaurant where you and your girlfriend work. We would make friends with your girlfriend, because obviously if you’re dating her, we have a lot in common. We would compare notes, swap stories, and give her an outlet to express how she’s happy with you but her heart knows something is off. Women have this innate intuition in our bones, even if we choose to ignore it. I hope you’re truly happy. Because you deserve true happiness. But my intuition says you’re not.
I used to think you were the one that got away. That in another life, you and I were meant to be. That if I was only more of this or only more of that, then someday you would look at me and realize I was the perfect girl. But I was the perfect girl. I still am! Always have been, always will be. And I get better every day. Now that I know that, no one can take that away from me. And I’m starting to think that I’m the one that got away. You know I am, even if you can’t admit it to yourself yet. Your mom definitely knows it. That’s why she calls me on my birthday.
The Writer's Oracle 