I woke up this morning with eyes as red as a full moon in late summer—really, they were simply the result of allergies and contacts. But it looked like I’d spent the whole night crying in my sleep, and once that thought entered my head, my sadness hit me like a baseball to the jaw of an inattentive phy. ed. student. BAM. And suddenly everything I’ve been feeling during the past few months made sense.

My flashbacks of those days look like the photos my mom keeps in a cardboard box at the very back of her closet. Black and white snapshots with borders textured by a pair of pinking shears forty some years ago and the “whites” of the pictures slowly evolving into various tones of yellow. Yes, that’s exactly how my mind pictures those moments that were really only seven-and-a-half months ago.

We were both sophomores in the best state college our parents could afford, and we both had our big dreams strapped to us as our parachutes but had more difficulty finding a path that would be both feasible and enjoyable. I dreamed harder than you, and you acted in your role of Dutiful Best Friend by being my reality check when things turned ugly. But you always caught me in your skinny arms with all the strength of the football player your stepdad wanted you to be when I fell. You used to look in the mirror at your not-so-muscular build with an almost undetectable frown that my radar sensed immediately. I told you that I, myself, was never into the Buff Dude scene; that used to make you smile.

Our first kiss was in October, when it was just turning cold enough to bring out the blue jeans and long sleeves. We were on the beach, staring at the rough waves of the lake and trying to forget that we were breaking curfew. Neither of us said anything except the words communicated between our eyes. The desperate drum solo of my heartbeat drowned out even the wind rushing through my ears and made my goose bumps less like Everest. We knew we were perfect simply in our astounding imperfections—knew that we saw each other as complete, which was enough to make me invincible enough to live forever.

Your mother fell in love with me and practically adopted me on the spot when she discovered how far away my own family was. She would joke with me—ask me constantly if we had “picked a date yet.” That always cracked me up. But at the same time, I sort of believed her. Sort of believed that there was no way that we wouldn’t end up together.

I remember how the vanity of the young woman I was would kick in right before an evening with you: I had to be perfect. And I knew that the annoyance on your face was really just a cover so that I didn’t see how flattered you were. I loved that about you.

You never told me outright that I was beautiful, and I never informed you of the extreme level of your attractiveness, but we found music and flowers and hot showers and nights sleeping in each others' arms to communicate what we weren’t saying.

When sophomore year ended, we dreamed of the summer we’d have together—we both fell for the cheesy romantic stuff.

I still know the date of that letter: August 10. We’d been together for ten months. I couldn’t believe it. Nor could I believe the context of that envelope. NYC. New York City. My dream school wanted me there. With them. They wanted me.

You saw the excitement in my heart, and you wanted it for me even more than I did. I looked into your eyes, and suddenly my heart ripped in half. I wouldn’t go, I stated. Tears were welling, and I didn’t have the strength to hold them back. You held me in your skinny arms for hours as we both cried, Bob Dylan’s voice leaking from your speakers. You told me that I couldn’t always be a dreamer—that I’d have to act on something at some point in my life in order to achieve anything I’d ever desired. It didn’t take much to realize how right you were. And so I took a plane to New York, my parachute secured tightly to my back, and pursued my biggest dreams.

I didn’t want to forget you. Letter followed letter for the first month before I was willing to admit that a long-distance relationship might fail. You stopped writing, and I did my best to erase our past.

__

Last night I went to sleep with Bob Dylan in my headphones. I blamed the music for my thoughts of you, but when the record stopped, your image did not fade.

I know the way you’d be looking at me right now. My eyes would be reluctant to receive the message that your own would be weighted heavy with. Pity. The tiny wrinkles in your forehead would crease just like they did every time you had to say something that you really didn’t want to.

My emotions were a lot like the little boy’s voice outside my apartment window that calls for a name that’s impossible to interpret. But right now I realize the name that my heart is calling. It’s yours. It’s always been yours.

There’s a cardboard box in the back of my closet loaded with real photos and letters from my time with you that I hid once I realized it was over.

You were right about NYC, you know. I’ve had some of the best experiences of my life here. I only wish you would have been here with me to witness them for yourself.

I know that over 75% of successfully married couples will tell you that you should never fall in love too quickly. But I guess that’s another one of my imperfections that I know you would have forgiven.

I know you would want me to be honest, so I won’t cheat here. I love you. I don’t think I could ever stop either, even if I prayed nine times a day like that weird aunt of yours that you were never too fond of. I love you. And I wish more than anything that you were here to hold me in your skinny arms while I cried to a soundtrack of Bob Dylan. I wish you were here to tell me with only your smile that I was beautiful, even with my eyes crimson and my hair all a mess. I wish you were here for so many reasons. But you aren’t. And the sensible third of myself knows that you never can be. Which hurts more than my contacts burning my already irritated eyes ever will.