Graphic by Megan Eloise/The Gazelle
Two People on a Twin-Size Bed
Editor's Note: This is an anonymous submission, published as part of a series exploring perceptions of love from NYU students across the global ...
Mar 5, 2016
March 6. 2019 Editor's Note – Names have been changed to protect the anonymity of subjects in this article.
The first time I discovered he blocked me was when I couldn’t find the link to Juanito Makandé’s song Niña Voladora on his Facebook timeline. I loved the song because he did, with its rhythmic guitar solos and Makandé’s deep crooning paired together in perfect harmony. I scrolled up and down his feed, looking for the video’s familiar thumbnail. I was stubbornly against downloading my own copy, and I used any excuse to visit his profile.
I loved looking at his photos the most: of him taking a selfie by the beach, of a Polaroid portrait of him and his sister, of him glancing over his shoulder to look at the camera, bamboo plants lush and wild in the background. I used to remember how many likes and what comments he received in every one of them, and it creeped him out. I know he loved the attention, though.
They say that love transcends words, but I will attempt to illustrate its simulacrum through the vignettes that I play in my mind when I’m lonely. Love is squeezing together on a twin-size bed. It is a walk down the Hudson River that ends up in a random crêperie in Alphabet City that leads to a long argument about whether permed hair is still cool. It is having sweaty palms and holding hands anyway.
A few years ago, I thought I knew how to play the game. During my freshman year, I had been repeatedly disappointed by my notions of love and by people who meant well but who ended up hurting me more than I could ever have imagined. I thought I emerged from my first year with tougher skin.
“I have to stop looking for love and start hunting for lust,” I told myself. In other words, you have to reel in the thirst, otherwise they will turn the other way and run for the hills. The balance is elusive, and the advice difficult to swallow for someone who can’t watch videos of people hearing through cochlear implants for the first time without crying more than the people in the video.
So when I told Joe during our first date that I should probably head back because I was tired, I thought I was playing the game right. I thought my indifference asserted my dominance, but his reaction surprised me. In an instant, I saw the hopes in his eyes crumble, steeling themselves into strength. It reminded me of the many times when I was stood up because the other person was too busy or emotionally unavailable. Joe was the opposite. He was vulnerable and ready to have me crush any remnants of hope he had left. Ironically, he made me feel weak for running away from something potentially great just because I was tired of being hurt. Needless to say, we ended up walking further uptown to see the Chrysler Building up close, just like he wanted.He made me feel weak for running away from something potentially great just because I was tired of being hurt.
My walls fell down very quickly from there, and I became the cheesy relationship love beast that I had yearned to be. I made him 8tracks playlists with captions like “you make me want to dance,” or “you keep me forever young.” I cooked him pasta with fancy mozzarella balls from Trader Joe’s. Meanwhile, he mixed fried eggs and bread crumbs and called it “breakfast salad.” I didn’t care; in fact, I thought it was quite charming. That’s how stupidly in love I was. We became the kind of couple that shares a hot dog and fries at Nathan’s while watching the Coney Island fireworks, Katy Perry’s Fireworks playing in the background. The scene is just so damn cheesy that there’s nothing left to do but to squeeze his hand a little tighter.
As I held too tightly, he let go too soon.
It’s funny how lovers become strangers in a matter of minutes. And by funny I mean absolutely devastating. He broke up with me via Facebook Messenger on New Year’s Day, four days before I flew to Shanghai to see him. The trifecta of breakups, as I like to call it. In a handful of catatonic weeks, I found myself standing in front of his door, wishing to hear him play his Juanito Makandé record, or just to see his face one last time for a proper goodbye.
“Joe? Please love me back.” I stood at his doorway, desperate. I had been banging on his door for several minutes, my palms and knuckles bruised and red. I could hear him behind the door, the shower on, an unfamiliar tune playing in the background. A sleepy-looking girl approached me, confused about all the noise I was making. “Do you need help?” she asks.
“I, er, need help with opening the door,” I stammered. The girl waddled beside me and tapped on the door gently, three times. No answer.
She looked back at me. “Maybe he’s asleep. Or not in the dorm.” She heard the shower too, but she was protecting me from him. We both understood this.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re right,” I stammered once more. I tried to keep my tone steady, because I did not want her to grow suspicious. She went back to her room and I was alone again in the hallway. I was left staring at the door’s wooden fibers, willing them to part with me. “Please, let me in again,” I say aloud.
After a while, I turned around and walked away.
It is incredibly painful to watch someone you love erase you from their life. It is always the pictures first. We had lived our entire relationship in secret, and the likes and comments I made on his photos were the only reminders of our love I could still hold on to. He washed them away like sand from the corners of our pockets.
Years later, I discovered that he was still dating a girl while we were together, and I was the man he kept secret. A mister, if you will. Maybe that’s why he broke up with me. Maybe he was afraid that the secret would come out, that his friends and family would find out before he built up the courage to tell them. Maybe I’ll never know. And it isn’t important. I just wish he had told me back then, when he had the chance.
Joe and I are no longer friends. I blocked him from all my social media, not because I hate him, but because just seeing his name on my timeline sends chills down my spine. There’s no magic bullet for getting over your first love. You just have to bide your damn time. If there’s a silver lining to any of this, after all the little notes I have written on scraps of paper, iPod notes and untitled documents on my Google Drive, it is the following: writing everything down makes me realize that I really, really want this kind of love for myself, the kind with Nathan’s hot dogs, 8tracks playlists and long arguments about hairstyle trends. Even if it isn’t with him.
There is so much more to my story with him. He isn’t a bad person, he got scared and backed away. I wish he stayed a little longer, but sometimes you can’t do anything to change someone’s mind. He taught me a lifetime’s worth of lessons that I will always carry with me. I insist on making my twin-size bed every morning, because I’ll never know who I will share it with next.
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