I
Last month, my boyfriend and I broke up. We’ll call him Adam. “It was mutual,”
is what I’ve been telling people. It doesn’t make me seem pathetic: it avoids the designation of being “dumped.” And it isn’t entirely untrue. But it isn’t totally true either. No break-up is ever really mutual. Someone always comes up with the idea. In this case, the idea was him.
We were coming up on a year of being together, but we didn’t totally make it there. Our anniversary would’ve been July 2nd, the day where we met up and walked around Herndon, ate dinner at this cute little Japanese restaurant, and ran into his house to avoid the sudden downpour of rain.
I loved him. I still do, and a part of me always will. I hadn’t loved anyone before the way I loved him. He was sweet in a gentle way. He’d give me hugs from behind and rub his cheeks against mine and run his fingers through my hair. He was funny, but in a subdued way, his humor not totally realized, his footing not entirely found. He was close to perfect, but not fully baked yet. He loved cars, and he taught me most of what I know about them. It wasn’t really my interest, but I could listen to him talk about them for hours, hearing the passion in every word, watching the light in his eyes shimmer.
Leading up to the break-up, we’d been talking about how our lives would fit together. I’d made space for him in my life. He knew my friends and he was on good terms with… most of them. He’d come to shows with my friends and I, and eat dinner with us. We took him to Pride with us, so I could be the obnoxious trans girl who brings along her straight boyfriend. But he didn’t make that same space for me in his life.
I’d met his family in passing, and he’d posted me online. It wasn’t like he was keeping me secret. But he kept the pieces of his world separate. He was so used to compartmentalizing his life. His family was in the kitchen, a common area that supplied him his needs, where he’d eat the fruits of their love for him graciously and respectfully. His friends were in the garage, working on cars, these relationships designated to their crafts. Then there was me, in the bedroom, given the rawest, most vulnerable pieces of him, making love with him late into the night, cherishing him and allowing him to relax. But that only ever allowed me to be one thing. He thought that keeping things where they were and letting them be just that was key to keeping them in good condition, but that didn’t really give our relationship room to grow into what it needed to be.
The way I saw it, as you date someone long term, you put down roots in their world and they put down roots in yours, and eventually your two lives merge into one life. One that you build together. Maybe that’s sappy and cheesy, but it was what I wanted. It became clear that that wouldn’t happen, especially when a future was no longer viable.
After college, I’ve always wanted to go to New York to become a writer. You can write from anywhere, but a big part of making it in the writing industry is networking. Making those connections so you can get your foot in the door, and the best place to do that is New York. Most major publishing houses and magazines are based there, and despite how disgusting the city is, I do still buy into the whole “greatest city in the world” propaganda. But his entire life has been in NoVA. He couldn’t let that go. He couldn’t come with me. And that meant that it couldn’t work out.
There was a ticking clock on our relationship. It hurt too much for him to know he’d lose me eventually. It’d be easier to do this now than two years down the line, when we were that much more in love. So he suggested we break up. I wish I could say I agreed, but I didn’t. Not at first. I’ve never been able to let things go, and I’ve always been a fighter. I begged. I screamed. I cried.
He said it was “for the best.” I said it was “best for HIM.” He told me once that he knew eventually I was always going to be the one to leave him, that he wanted to stay with me as long as I’d have him. So why was he trying to leave me now? I’d promised myself I’d never beg again, but my pleads turned into sobs and my sobs into shouts. “PLEASE ADAM, PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME.” Loud, ugly, angry, hurt. Four nights straight I did this. Each time, he would agree not to leave at the end, but the next night we’d have the same fight again.
I try so hard to err on the progressive side of every issue. To paint a portrait of myself as a confident, self-assured feminist, who is tired of men’s bullshit, who cares about female solidarity and empowerment. That’s the image of myself that looks nice. And it isn’t entirely untrue. But when it comes to love, its accuracy wanes. I tell my friends that they shouldn’t put up with men’s bullshit. That they should love themselves. That men are not hard to find. But when I love one, I dig in my heels, grit my teeth, and hold on for dear life. I refuse to let go.
II
We had a couple weeks before I moved back to Richmond. So despite our relationship status – deceased – we still went on a few dates. They were some of the best dates we’d ever had. We went to the Baltimore Aquarium, my first time being in the city. It was beautiful. I didn’t know what to expect from Baltimore. I didn’t know it was a coastal city, or that the crab imagery would be so prevalent. But I really liked it.
It felt good to be in a city again after so long of being cooped up in the suburban hellscape that is Centreville. I know I said that I was finally loving it a couple blogs ago, and I do, but I’m not a country mouse who lives in a little cottage, I’m a sewer rat who lives off of discarded pizza. Stepping back onto metropolitan ground was a shock to my senses, jolting new life into me, allowing me to unleash the beast. I pranced on the streets, Adam following patiently behind, amused by my antics.
The aquarium itself was breathtaking. Stepping into its dimly lit halls to be hit by the brightly colored exhibits was like finding yourself on a completely different planet. The last aquarium I’d been to was a year ago in Florida, and compared to this, it felt no more special than the fish section at PetsMart. This didn’t just have fish, it had stingrays and sharks and dolphins and puffins. I got to pet a jellyfish and a horseshoe crab. It made me feel like a kid again. It’d been so long since I’d isolated so much wonder for the world in myself.
The next day we went to Tysons Corner mall. I had been reading this novel, Clytemnestra, which was a retelling of some old Greek story through the perspective of an underwritten female character. To provide me some context, Adam bought me a copy of The Odyssey from Barnes & Nobles. We saw this movie, Past Lives. I wanted to see it because it was Korean, but not a movie from Korea. It’s rare to find films like that. He wanted to see it because the reviews were amazing. 97% on Rotten Tomatoes. That’s like, really good.
It tells the story of a woman named Nora, originally named Na Young, who emigrated from Korea to the US when she was twelve; and the boy she left behind, Hae Sung. They reconnect twelve years later, and develop a flirtation despite their distance, though it doesn’t last. Twelve years after that, he comes to visit America. He’s about to be engaged, she’s married. The movie circles this idea of “in-yun.” The idea of the people in your life being fated. When you know someone in a past life, and are fated to know them in this one, that is in-yun. It has to do with buddhism and reincarnation, a remnant from a pre-christianized Korea.
I pointed out all the little Korean isms with Adam. I’d explain to him little details about Korean masculinity, the way that the character ㄹ functioned. The little cultural details that I’d picked up growing up. Despite the premise, this film is not a love story. About halfway through the film, we’re shown Nora’s first meeting of her husband. She tells him about in-yun, and how it’s said that if two people get married, they have 80 thousand layers of in-yun from 80 thousand lifetimes. When he asks her if she believes that, she cheekily tells him, “No. That’s just what Koreans say when they’re trying to seduce someone.” Adam looks at me and asks, “How come you never told me this?” I smirk and say, “I never needed to, you were all over me.”
The movie ends with acceptance. Hae Sung understands that they were not meant to be together, a fact that Nora is able to communicate to him. That in this life, she has the 80 thousand layers with her husband, not him, that it’s not to be. At the end, as he leaves to go back to Korea, he asks her what if. What if in the next life, they do have those 80 thousand layers. What does that make them to each other now? She tells him she doesn’t know, and runs back and cries in her husband's arms.
They were never going to be able to be together. And that’s okay. But it still hurts. Watching it with Adam, it felt eerily fitting to our situation. We cried on the way home. It wasn’t ugly tears, the way I often do, they were soft tears of acceptance. They dripped down my cheeks without a sound, and only when we hit a red light did I realize he was crying too, when he lifted up his glasses and wiped under his eyes with his sleeve.
III
Over the course of the next few days, I spent time with friends. I met up with some of my writer friends from Ink, and we went to a show in DC. The band was called Bombadil. Their music was funky with a nice rhythm to dance to, but their melodies and lyrics were sad, and they reminded me of the breakup. I definitely tend to take more of a submissive role in a relationship, but with my Ink friends, I became vibrant once again. Cracking jokes, telling the story of my creepy Lyft driver and getting hit on by a Koreaboo customer. At the show, some weird guy hit on my friends and I was the only one with the gut to tell him to fuck off. I rediscovered my audacity, something I can sometimes let go of around men
A few days later, I went clubbing for the first time. One of my coworkers, a big guy with a blonde beard, invited me out. Another of my coworkers, a brunette with an Elvis tattoo, was coming too. He wasn't very cute, but he was charming, and he’d been hitting on me for the past two days. I agreed, but I’m not an idiot. I wasn’t about to go clubbing for the first time with two guys I didn’t really know, so I invited one of my best friends, and she came along with me.
On the drive there, listening to Blonde-beard and Elvis Tattoo talk in the front seat, it was once again confirmed to me: men are so fucking weird. My friend and I exchanged scathing reads about them the entire time in the back. At one point, she took out her perfume and sprayed it around the car to deal with the smell of Blonde-beard. When we got to the club, we lost them.
The music was loud, and the mass of sweaty bodies gave the room a humidity that I pretended not to think about. The music was loud, and I danced all night, somehow not tiring. I fielded advances from older men who tried to bust out the moves on me. I didn’t know how to explain to a complete stranger in a dark, crowded club that I’m a girl with a dick. I danced with two guys, grinding my ass up against them.
I danced with a guy on one of the raised platforms, and when he started to get a little too handsy for my liking, I noticed his little friend throbbing in his pants. I realized he was about to blow, and not wanting an unseemly substance on the back of my skirt, I quickly got out of there.
Elvis tattoo asked to dance with me, and I agreed. When he asked me if I was single, I coyly told him it was complicated, and I flirted with him all night. He’d jealously ask me how many guys I’d danced with, and watch me from across the room. He wanted me bad, and I loved it.
When I got home, I called Adam, crying. I told him how guilty I felt. How I could feel myself getting used to the idea of not being with him. How there was attention coming my way, and I felt selfish for enjoying it. How I should’ve been hung up and crying over him, burying my face in my pillow and staining it with my tears. Not flirting with other guys and going clubbing and having fun. I should’ve been more miserable than I was. He told me that he wanted me to be able to move on. That it wasn’t a bad thing, that I shouldn’t feel guilty.
IV
Eventually, July 2nd came, what would have been our anniversary. I came over to his place at around 4am after a night out, and we cuddled up in bed. We laid in bed taking naps and watching episodes of Spectacular Spider-Man, and planned to wake up early and go to Skyline Drive to watch the sunrise the next morning. Well, we’d planned to go that morning but I showed up at 4am, so I was wayyyy too tired. And then we were gonna go that evening, but we slept all day. Skyline Drive is kind of our white whale (I think? Idk I never read Moby Dick).
I knew I was out of bronzer, so the two of us went to Target. I always liked running errands with him, going on late night target runs and quick stops at RiteAid. It made us feel like a real couple, the kind that does mundane shit together because it’s better that way. I started to get hunger pangs, and so we decided to go try the Grimace Shake. He’d been sending me memes of it all week.
Yes, the Grimace Shake is an important part of this story. I promise I am not fucking with you.
After we had the shake, Adam offhandedly joked, “Whatever bad thing happens next is because of that shake.” We hopped into his car and we started to drive back to his place. The two of us listened to music and joked, until he saw a spider on his windshield. I rolled my eyes, as if I wasn’t scared of bugs. As if the week prior I hadn’t called him at 2am because there was a cricket in my bathroom and I was too scared to brush my teeth. He leaned over to grab a rag out of his glove box and that was when I saw it.
The light was red, the car in front of us stopped. My eyes widened and I tried my best to alert him. “Adam! Adam!” I was terrified. I’d been in a car crash before and I almost hadn’t survived it. This took me back there, to that trauma, to that pain. When I felt us hit it, I had the terrible thought: is this how I die?
I don’t remember every moment of the crash. I remember the impact, being jolted back into my seat and then sprung forward, dangled by the seat belt grasped onto my chest. I remember the smell. Like sandpaper, and seeing the airbags everywhere. I remember the smoke, if you could even call it that. Like everything was sepia. I remember stepping out of the car, cautiously making my way to the sidewalk, sitting on the curb and touching every part of myself, trying to make sure I was still in one piece.
And I remember his screams. Adam getting out, looking at his car; his baby. The project that he’d poured so much time, money, energy, and passion into. His everything. It was completely shattered. The front of it had been crumpled like a disposable water bottle. An air of beige smog surrounded it. And he yelled.
“FUCK! IT’S ALL GONE!” “EVERYTHING IS GONE!” “FUCK! FUCK!”
I had never heard him curse like that before. He was the kind of guy who when things got too tough for him, he cried, not yelled. But he yelled and he cursed and I watched him. I should’ve gone to comfort him sooner but I was frozen. I didn’t know what to do. When he came over to the sidewalk, I started to approach him, but he screamed an expletive again. It wasn’t directed towards me, but it was enough to make me keep my distance.
He came to check on me, seeing if I was okay. I told him I was, even though my chest ached every time I moved. He talked to the other driver, and then his family showed up and he talked to them. It’s funny, but hearing him talk to his family after the crash; I think that was the first time I heard him speak Spanish. Another side of him that I would never really get to see. The police showed up soon after, marking off the crash scene.
It’s fucked up, but the entire time I kept thinking about the Grimace Shake. It was just for the meme, but I swear to god I shoulda stayed away from that thing.
He came to sit next to me, and I gingerly placed my arms around him, feeling him hold them with his hands. It was then that he cried. As if my arms around him gave him permission to feel; to ache. He cried and I held him and I ran my fingers through his hair and I whispered in his ear how I’m so sorry and I know how much this hurts. I couldn’t imagine losing something like that. As a writer the equivalent would probably be me losing my hands, and I don’t know what I’d do without my hands. There’s a masturbation joke here.
We sat in his parents’ minivan in the back row, his little sister in the row before, and his parents up front. I held onto him even though it hurt, even though the slightest pressure on my chest sent shivers of pain throughout my torso.
We got back and we curled up in bed and watched the first half of Everything Everywhere All At Once, yet another thing we’d never finish. I was tired but I tried my best to stay up. He told me it was okay to sleep, but I fought it, though eventually I lost the fight. I guess he didn’t mean it though, because a bit later later I felt his hand squeezing my shoulder. I don’t know how long I was asleep for but it must not have been that long. It wasn’t the kind of waking up that happens in the morning. It was the kind of waking up that happens when you doze off on the drive back, and you can feel the car parking when you get home.
The first thing I saw was him crying. I don’t like when he cries, but every time I see it, it reminds me why I fell in love with him. To see him in such a vulnerable place. It makes me want to hold him, to protect him from ever feeling pain like that again. “What’s wrong?” I say groggily. “It’s not fair. I’m losing my car, and now I have to lose you too,” he cries. I hold him close. I tell him, “I know.” He cries into my shoulder like a little kid.
V
At our last dinner together, we had sushi. I could barely bring myself to look at him, and when I did, I was struck by how beautiful he was. How much I was going to miss him.
“You’re perfect,” I told him, placing my hand on his cheek, gently rubbing it with my thumb.
“I’m not,” he said. “If I was, I would’ve been able to go with you.”
I drove him home and I cuddled up with him in bed. I held him close and I held him tight, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to hold him again. I felt him cry into my shoulder, his soft sobs giving way to heavy, anguished groans. I tried to hold it together so that at least one of us was okay, but I couldn’t bring myself to. I broke too, and tears streamed down my face and I cried like a baby. That’s the worst thing about being in love. The more you love someone, the more that it hurts.
When I left, it was pouring. From his door to my car, my shirt was soaked through, stained with the sky’s sorrow. When I got in, I could barely see. I didn’t know what lay ahead. It was safe inside with him, comfortable, but it never would’ve been the right time to leave. It was always going to hurt, always going to be tough, always going to make me cry, but it had to be done.
So I drove away.
This is BEAUTY and ART. I literally teared up twice at work reading this. I love you sm girl <3 it will get easier, im sure ur tired of hearing that but it will.