Six Years; Nine Stories

2010. After a fire drill, we walk up the stairs with everyone else in our dorm because we can't use the elevators. Eighteen-year-old boys shout "penis!" in the echoing stairwell. We lock eyes, roll our eyes, and yell "vagina!". A small rebellion, because boys can be obnoxious and because no one will say the word vagina. Elected officials, grown men, will even shy away from the word.

In the winter, snow in merry piles knee-deep blanketing a picturesque college campus somewhere on the Washington and Idaho border, we hold hands and take pictures. We lay in the snow and look up at the sky. We walk. We talk about the expanse of our lives that lies at our feet. Our hands are cold, but my heart is warm. By the light in her eyes, I think hers is too.

2011. She visits before the semester starts. We go to the drag show and revel. Something later in the night brings me to tears. She makes me laugh by squeezing my hand. One squeeze, then two, and we giggle as we try to keep up with the count. She kisses my mouth. I am in love. 

We talk in the phone. We decide that we are girlfriends. A smile splits my face. Joy, like nothing I've felt. I smile for her.

2013. I withdraw from school in the middle of the spring semester and go home. I live in an apartment that my dad pays for. It's a long story. We still talk on the phone. But it's less. And less. And then my texts go unanswered.

Sometimes I can forget.

2015. I try to find closure. I tell myself it is over. 

She is on Facebook. In a fit of weakness, I message her. I'm in love with you, I tell her, I don't think I can stop. She touched my hand and I pressed my heart into hers, and it's not a transaction I can take back. I don't know if I want to. But I need this to be over and done so I will not always be tortured by this loss. She finally speaks, after years of silence. She wishes me well, tells me she's sorry.

I forget more often. But not entirely. Isn't that the way of love?

2016. I cannot forget. Another Facebook message, and in a holy revelation she has not forgotten either. She's an ocean away -- why is she an ocean away? -- but we make plans for when she is on American soil once more. She drops her bag when she sees me. We are happy. 

And then we are not. Unanswered texts. Snapchats never opened. My heart once again delivered into her hands, and she does not want it through life's storm. Only when she needs to be reassured that she is special.

I reject this as she has rejected me.

I free myself from her love's grip. I can breathe, and I can forget.

And I am glad.