And plus, I don’t have any idea, not even one clue, about what I want to write. No seed of a plot, no vague outline of a character, not even an inkling of where to begin. One could say that an idea is the most important part, and I’ve got no clue.

Yet oh, to write a book. To create my own world, fabricate my own characters and throw them into that world and watch them make of it what they will…the thought of that appeals to me tremendously. Maybe it’s my vanity coming in, because in some ways it’s a little like playing god—to write the rules of what does and doesn’t exist: magic, deities, continents, customs, traditions, creatures, regimes. It’s such a project, but I would enjoy it beyond all measure.

We’ll see. I’ve got time; maybe one day it’ll be reality.

And by the way—a quick aside—there’s a way the show uses to justify itself in the face of its horrible track record of successful couples that’s actually kind of compelling. In fact, I wonder why they haven’t pulled out that excuse earlier…or maybe they’d never thought of it before, seeing as I only heard of it as a quick comment from the host. Anyway, as much as the show tries to frame itself as a process which allows one man (or woman) find the person he’s going to marry and grow old with, what it actually does is help the man (or woman) find someone who he has a strong romantic connection with, a spark that they can go and build a life and a marriage off of, once the camera’s stop rolling. The Bachelor (or Bachelorette) doesn’t end up with a wife (or husband), he ends up with someone who could be his wife (or husband), and that part’s all up to them. Problem is, the show itself claims so much more and, well, that’s reality TV.

Back to the main idea. One of the finalists on this season told the camera something along the lines of “I always thought that I was a strong person, and it’s simple enough to go into (date involving some sort of thrilling/dangerous activity) acting tough. But during our serious conversations, I can’t be tough. Being strong in this case means being vulnerable and opening up.”

And despite the time Leone and I have spent together and how close we’ve become, how good we’ve gotten at reading each other, I’ve never quite been vulnerable. I’ve never quite opened up. We’ve had serious discussions, even debates, but almost never about our feelings toward each other. It’s still too scary. It’s my fault entirely, and I know that it’s something I’ll eventually have to deal with. I’m just not sure how, and I’m not sure I’ll be strong enough to take the first step. He might have to give me a push.

Since I’ve come back from Thanksgiving break, Leone has seemed extra affectionate towards me, something which he’s never been lacking of in the first place. I chock it up to our not having seen each other for 4 days, which is probably the longest time we’ve been apart since he came back in August. Oh, and a few days ago we had an anniversary of sorts, really the first one we’ve actually acknowledged/been able to identify: that day one year ago was the first time he started talking to me online (I remember because he greeted me with the date in the message). It was right after I returned from last year’s Thanksgiving, and since then hardly a day’s gone by when we didn’t

talk. Not counting, of course, when I was out in the middle of the ocean faced with $6/minute phone rates, or when our schedules didn’t match up/we didn’t have calling cards while Leone was in Europe—because who could blame us then?

Anyway, last night after Leone left the apartment after hanging out and watching TV here for a few hours, he called me to tell me a piece of news, and added that he’d like to drive out during my 1.5 hour break to have lunch. He’s going to his grandma’s later today to celebrate his birthday and won’t be home until the evening, and even though we usually don’t see each other on Tuesdays/Thursdays until the evenings and had made plans for him to come over when he got home, it would be nice to hang out for a little before then. That is, if he’s able to wake up in time. Since he graduated in May, and until he finds a job/goes to grad school Leone has been sleeping in until noon-1ish every day, a life that I would lead if I didn’t have to drag myself to class, and a life that I, as a night-owl, envy very much. I knew that it was unlikely that he would wake up in time to make the narrow window and I teased him a little about not getting my hopes up, but he implied that he would make the effort.

Monday is usually our sex/hang-out day, because it’s the day I get off the earliest, but Leone had forgotten (even though it’s a weekly thing) and was scheduled to help his grandmother around the house. Since it had been so long since we’d last been together (ie: had sex) Leone was playing around with the thought of waking up at 8 (earlier than early, for him) so that he would be back by 2 and then I could come over. Sunday night, he said he’d call me when he got back. I didn’t expect him to finish by 2 because I didn’t expect him to get up at 8, but I also didn’t expect that when he texted me at 1:30, it would be to say that he’d just gotten out of bed. I was disappointed, but not very much so.

When the clock tolled 11 this morning, I craned my neck to look out of the classroom window on the off chance that Leone would be standing outside waiting for me. It would be, after all, the best optimization of our time. He wasn’t, but I’d expected that. Then, I thought he would call me as I was on my way home, but it wasn’t until I’d given up and was eating a frozen dinner (at 11:40) that my cell rang.

“Too late,” I said cheerfully. “Too late?!” he repeated. It turned out that he’d thought he’d heard me say that my break was until 1 instead of 12:30, and he had woken at 11 only to get a call from his uncle which had kept him until now. I teased him some more about not waking up on time. I said, “well, even I didn’t have to go until 1, it would still be too late now,” and “what would have been best is if you had woken before 11.”

And suddenly I was getting all choked up. It was so abrupt and unexpected that at first I didn’t even know it was happening—the tightness in my chest, the lump in my throat. When I did realise I was about to cry, I was bewildered, because I didn’t think the issue had been that big of a deal to me. But there I was, on the verge of tears, trying to hold them in until finally the call dropped (Leone’s apartment gets horrible signal) and I let them slip out. When he called me back, I paused to blow my nose and steady my voice before picking up. And sat there with silent tears streaming from my eyes while he went on about his new computer. And answered his questions with one-word replies. Then the call dropped a second time, and then a third, and each time between calls I unstopped the dam and bawled with my face buried in my hands, at times weeping out loud, at times silently, shoulders shaking.

It was still almost twenty minutes before I had to leave, but finally I told Leone that I had to go to get ready. He questioned the timing, I made up a half-excuse. “Are you mad at me?” he asked, and I told him no because I didn’t want him to think that I was being unfair, and because I wasn’t, really. At least, I didn’t think I was. “I’m sad at you,” I said, and left it at that. Finally, he let me go with a promise to call me later.

I sat alone in the kitchen crying for a few more minutes, and would have wallowed a bit more if I didn’t actually have to go. On the way there, my eyes still feeling puffy and red, I thought—so I’m not the cool-girlfriend I’d prided myself on being after all. Because everything he said made sense, and every reason he gave was understandable, and because he had gotten up in time, if not at the earliest time possible, and because his uncle had been in the hospital with stomach flu, so of course it was good that Leone stayed on the phone with him. Maybe it was hormonal, I thought. There’s two days each month when I’m suspectible to unexpected and unwarranted sadness. But, no, it didn’t seem like the right time. I can’t explain what made me break down for no reason, except to say that maybe I was hurt that twice in a row Leone had seemed to care less about seeing me than sleeping in. Except that I know that’s not true, and I know how hard it is to pull yourself out of bed in the morning. I don’t know what else to say about it, save that I’m confused and embarrassed and at a loss.

Fortunately, I feel all better now, though no less perplexed, and I don’t think this little episode is symptomatic of anything more of being human. And weird.

I can’t believe I just did that. I can’t believe I just wrote those words, that the internet is the first to know, that this blog has to be the place they first alight after stumbling out from the dark recesses of my mind, where I’ve been hoarding them so long. If I’d thought about it, I wouldn’t have typed them, or I would’ve talked about it without directly saying those words, because doesn’t Leone deserve to be the first to know? But it’s too late now. If only telling him were as easy as typing that sentence just was.

To be honest, I’ve known that I love him since mid-September, and I still haven’t told him. At first I was giving it some time to try to make sure I was sure before I said it, and after that I just kept finding excuses. I don’t want to plan out a perfect moment, a perfect speech, because that just feels too scripted, but I also don’t want to just throw it out there at a completely unromantic moment, either. Sometimes I think it would be kind of nice to say it out of the blue as we’re walking down the street, because that’s sweet and a story in its own way, and other times I want that romance. I’ve been hoping that I’ve been keeping it in for so long that it’ll just burst out of me one day at the most inopportune of times, and that will make it the loveliest of all, but that hasn’t happened yet because when it comes to feelings I always always think and rethink before I speak.

Sometimes I’m afraid that he doesn’t love me anymore, even though everything he does says otherwise, so I consider bringing up that phone conversation as a lead-in, because maybe he’ll say it again and then it’ll come easy. And then I think—no, this is my time to say it. I’ve briefly entertained the idea of secretly taking some liquid courage beforehand, but that’s cheating, an easy way out.

The more I think about it, the more I know I need to just do it. Just do it, and don’t think. I’m thinking about this way too much, and by thinking about not planning it I’m actually planning it. Funny thing.

And oh—I never really understood what people meant when they said, “when you’re in love, you’ll know.” I remember back in July, thinking about it from all different angles, trying to figure out whether I loved him or just really really liked him, and back then when I thought “I like him,” my brain went “YES” and when I thought “I love him,” it went “…” And since September, “I love him” is a “YES”. It just feels right, and when I think “I like him,” …I can’t even recall that feeling anymore. They were right. I just knew, and I don’t know the how or why of it, but somewhere in these months I’ve found the trust in love that I was never quite sure I had, as a sometimes-cynic. Not that it conquers all or that it’s never wrong or that it’s forever, because those discoveries are for the seasoned and I’m still an amateur, but that it exists. And for now, that’s good enough for me.

He saw me first. I don’t know if I would’ve even known he was there if he hadn’t yelled my name and pulled down his fake beard upon my request. I was surprised that he recognized me, the girl who was nothing more than someone who was once in one—no, two—of his classes, who liked him and tried too hard to talk to him. And then I thought—why is it a surprise at all? We had been friends. I’ve told myself this and I recognize that it’s so sad that when I look back on that year I remember him as the guy I liked and only recall after several minutes of nostalgic pining that he was my friend first. And maybe that’s why we’re not in contact anymore: I didn’t make the effort because I didn’t feel like his friend, I felt like one girl out of so many who liked him, and thus not entitled.

He said something to me in German that got lost in the din, and we tried to catch up while costumed partygoers squeezed past us in the narrow hallway. He leaned close so that I could hear him over the music and the confusion, and I looked into his eyes, and they were just as blue as I had remembered. He said, “I really want coffee—do you want coffee?”I replied, “YES. Youaremykindoman!” That last in my head.

And then he went to grind beans and start up the stove (because that’s how hipsters make coffee, apparently) and I was left standing there, my mind abuzz. For the record, I wasn’t sober, although he might have been. Perhaps I made a bad second-first impression. I determinedly tried to remember Leone, how much I care for him, how much more perfect he is than No. 1. How Leone can give No. 1 a serious run for his money in the looks department, even with those dash-your-heart-upon-them baby blues. No. 1′s arms were probably no thicker than mine, and his caveman costume was uncomfortably short in some places, and yet I stood there and wasn’t sure if I still wanted him.

I don’t think I did. I think that maybe I would want him in a schoolgirl way, just to want him, but ultimately I don’t think I like him anymore. Nor am I certain anymore that we would fit together perfectly. It’s hard not to want to throw yourself at him (I saw several girls batting their eyelashes at him throughout the night), but if anything the party was a confirmation that those loose ends are finally tied. I felt immediately guilty for even thinking that I could still like No. 1 somewhere inside me that’s been dormant for three years, and later in bed with Leone I tried to pretend that he was No. 1 to see if there was anything there and my own mind slapped me back like a shot.

But still, I miss him as a friend, and I think finally I’ve let go of my like for him enough that I can just be his friend, nothing else. I think. I think? I’m no longer entirely sure. Maybe I’ll never be free of him, but it doesn’t matter, because it doesn’t interfere with what I have with Leone, and I’m not going to let it.

Rosemary and I still share a room, but it’s a slightly bigger room. I thought it would be a problem because I was so frustrated with her last year for being such a diligent worker/loner that I would never get the apartment to myself. But I’m not angry this year. Maybe it’s because I myself am not home often enough to feel it (I spend most of the weekend—for me, it includes Friday—at Leone’s unless Buttercup, Jasmine, and I are going out). Maybe I’ve come to expect/accept it now. Either way, I no longer feel so suffocated. She also hasn’t really been playing her music out loud, so that helps a lot.

Jasmine has her own room because she snores, but she also has the only full sized bed and the TV, so the rest of us spend a lot of time in there. A few times during a particularly stressful (and hormone-ridden) week she came home in tears, and there was a few days that she spent on the verge of them because of trouble at home, but otherwise Jasmine is so generous and accommodating. She’s not picky at all whether it comes to food or other issues that come up with communal living (and it’ll become evident why this is important). She can be loud and a little annoying sometimes, but this is always fleeting, and therefore isn’t a big deal. Mostly she makes me laugh and is great to live with.

Right now, it’s Buttercup that I have the most issue with, and it’s hard to pinpoint exactly where my beef with her comes from. I think it may have started somewhere last year and been building slowly but steadily ever since. The root of it may be that she’s so picky, she’s so opinionated, and she’s so inflexible. She’ll need something done a certain way, and she seems to get Her Way confused with the Best Way. The example that leaps immediately to mind is when we were making breakfast food the other day and I was scrambling the eggs the way I usually scramble eggs, which hasn’t failed me or generated any complaints thus far. She leans over and tells me, “Sweetie, you have to keep stirring the spatula.” I realize that this doesn’t sound like much, but when this sort of is thing happening all the time, it starts to grate upon you.

Other times I’ll have just cleaned the bathroom mirror and she’ll come in and go, “You really have to clean the mirror better than that.” And “You have to really scrub at the shower floor.” And to Rosemary: “You didn’t do a bad job sweeping for your first time.” (It wasn’t her first time). And Rosemary and I have had discussions about how Buttercup goes to bed at ELEVEN and then needs it to be completely dark and quiet to the point where we feel guilty for sneaking out to use the bathroom even though there’s a reason she’s paying less to live in the living room. You see?

She’s also vain which in itself is fine. I’m vain too, I admit it. But she’ll come home and talk our ears off about how she impressed the supervisors that day at work (I heard her story about how she won training-jeopardy for her team at least four times within a 12 hour period), or how she was the only person to get a sentence-long reply when wishing some guy a happy birthday, or how her boyfriend loves it when she does this in bed (TMI!), etc. She’s very proud of her skills in the kitchen, so when we’re all making something together she’ll make us do it her way or take over and do it herself, but while her food is fine, it’s not OMG DELICOUS, and it’s certainly neither better than what we would have made without her nor worth bragging about. She doesn’t get it that she finds her own food delicious because A) that’s how her mom used to make it for her when she was little and B) she’s making it to her own specifications, so of course she’ll find it perfect.

She eats everyone’s food, to the point where the three of us are afraid to buy cheese because it’ll be gone before we even touch it and she leaves her sweaty gym clothes lying on the bathroom floor. She leaves a spoonful of guac in the fridge for days. She often asks for favors which are little but add up. She doesn’t feel guilty when her Korean friend pays for her 100^th dinner. Recently she’s been in a bad mood, so she asked for a week long Get Out Free card which basically means she gets to bitch all week and no one can call her out on it because she warned us beforehand. For days she’s been antisocial one minute, completely fine the next, then a raging bitch again in the blink of an eye. Tonight she came home, banged about cleaning with her headphones in, sulked in a corner while the rest of us cooked, and snapped at Jasmine and Rosemary. We’ve been giving her a wide berth.

This makes Buttercup sound like the dreaded roommate from hell, which she isn’t. She comes out looking worse than she is because I’m highlighting her faults, and also because she’s in a mood as I type and that’s affecting the way I’m portraying her. Buttercup’s still my friend, and our friendship is still weighing heavier than how frustrated I am at her right now.

Moving on: our current kitchen system drives Rosemary and I a little nuts, because when it was just the two of us we used to wash as we went and so the kitchen always stayed pretty clean and uncluttered. Buttercup and Jasmine, however, are of the leave-dishes-around-for-days-and-clean-all-at-once school, so there’s almost always a pile-up. The dishwasher also does a horrible job, and we often have to wash things again. They also leave wrappers, utensils, and crumbs all over the counters, so the kitchen is pretty much only clean after Sunday (cleaning day) and maybe after an ad-hoc mid-week cleaning. Towards the end of the week, Rosemary and I wear flipflops into the kitchen because the floor’s just that gross.

It’s a collective action problem, because she and I would be fine washing our own dishes as we used them, but when it’s our turn with the kitchen that week we’d have to pick up all the dishes anyway so it doesn’t make sense to wash ours right away. Plus, it’s hard to use the sink when it’s filled to overflowing with dishes (often still half full of food or trash). It wouldn’t be such a big deal if we could just stick soiled things directly into the dishwasher; instead, they need to be rinsed off first—and if you’re doing that anyway, why not just take the 5 extra seconds a plate to finish the job? We would be much happier using the dishwasher as a drying rack.

In the end, it’s on of those things where you have to compromise. For the past 2 months Rosemary and I have had to be content with doing things someone else’s (Buttercup’s) way, because maybe Our Way isn’t the Best Way.

If I need a fix of Roommate Drama, it can always be found when Jasmine and Buttercup come at each other the wrong way. They’re probably the closest out of the four of us, but they’re both assertive (whereas Rosemary and I are unfortunately passive-aggressive), and recently they’ve been getting into arguments about nothing. Two weeks ago it was how freeways are named. Last week it was where the cheese grater is. Voices get raised; things get heated. To their credit, the issue is always dropped as quickly as it is picked up, and in a heartbeat the two will be joking again, but there’s definitely an undercurrent of tension. I think that Jasmine also resents Buttercup for being too inflexible and that Buttercup resents Jasmine for treating her like she’s stupid. When these tiffs go on, Rosemary and I try not to get involved and hope they don’t ask us to mediate.

Finally, there’s one more issue that I’ve been struggling with, and it’s similar to what I had to deal with last year: balancing Leone-time and Roommate-time. I love my weekends with Leone, but there’s always something pulling at the back of my mind, whispering that I’m away too much, that I’m not being a good friend. It doesn’t help that Jasmine and Buttercup tend to text me when I’m away harassing me for not being there. Usually they do this jokingly, but I can tell there’s real sentiment behind their words. This in turn annoys me: Why—I say to myself—should I be obligated to account for my time with Leone? I’m free to go where I want, do what I will. If I don’t come back for three days straight, what right do they have to make me feel bad about it? It’s not like we don’t hang out enough on weekday nights, and I am frequently home on the weekends.

And yet. I do feel bad, and I hate the feeling.

It sounds as if living here is a horrible chore, but it’s not. Just because I’m complaining more than I’m praising doesn’t mean that there’s more to complain about. I love my friends, and I love living here (most of the time). A few days ago I dreamt that we were moving out, and I woke up feeling sad and wistful—until I realized that it was all a dream, and smiled.

Leone finally, finally came home on the night of August 26, a Tuesday, two days before the semester started. That night was also the night of the very first party of the year (or so Buttercup said), held at one of the bigger frathouses, and a not-to-be-missed occasion (or so Buttercup said). I fretted. I really couldn’t care less if it was the first party of the year or the last; all I wanted was to see my boyfriend who’d been abroad the last month and a half. It didn’t matter that a month and a half was probably nothing to Buttercup, whose own boyfriend lives in San Diego. Since I’d first started talking to Leone there haven’t been more than 2 occasions on which we didn’t speak for an entire day. I missed him, and I couldn’t wait to be with him again.

At the same time, I didn’t want to start the year off on the sour chord struck by choosing my boyfriend over my friends, however understandable my motives. And for some reason, Buttercup was adamant I didn’t miss this party. Even if I was clearly torn. Even if Jasmine too expressed disinterest in partying that night.

When we went out to dinner with Lily (another Classics friend who’d just returned from a year abroad) it was already past seven, and I was counting down the minutes until Leone’s flight would touch down, checking my phone for texts or calls at a frequency that was both desperate and unbecoming. There was no word from him, and I was on pins and needles. When we got home, I scrambled to my laptop and on stolen internet looked up his flight information for the third time that day. Delayed. Two hours delayed. I groaned in frustration: I’d been planning fervently in my head a way I could both see Leone and go to that party I had no interest in attending. If his plane landed at 8 and he came straight to my apartment like he’d said he wanted to do, and the party didn’t start until 10, we could hang out for a little under 2 hours, and then maybe I could convince him to come along with us. Even though he’d probably be dead tired from days of traveling and sleeping in airports. Or, he could sleep on my bed while I spent as little time as possible at the party.

Now that his flight was delayed, all of it went to scratch. If it landed at 10, well, he’d get here at 11, and that could work too, but only if I could get out in less than an hour. At almost-10, just as we were dressed and about to leave, my phone chimed with a text message. Leone said, “I’m here, I’m coming for you, and I’m not letting you go until you step into class on Thursday.”

To cut to the chase, he didn’t. Not, at least, in the most literal way you could apply his words without getting creepy. Two minutes in the frat house had me sweating in the most unattractive way, and my heart wasn’t in it so I begged out, opting instead to stand on the curb watching as groups of decked-out freshmen were herded in. The moment Leone called I was speeding down the street, barely stopping to wait for Rosemary, who would be coming home with me to take care of schoolwork. I saw him walking down the street toward us, and stopped mid-sentence to run into his arms. That night, in a comfortable puddle of throw pillows and blankets in Jasmine’s not-yet-furnished bedroom, we smiled at each other in the moonlight before he slid between my legs almost shyly, gasping the moment our bodies made contact. He ground against me, and then I took him in my hands while he writhed above me blissfully, panting that we needed to slow down, that he hadn’t cum in over a week.

He held me that entire night, which he has never done because he is a stomach-sleeper. I drifted in and out of sleep with my head on his chest and his arm under me. Once in the early morning I murmured to him that we should switch sides, because his right arm must be getting tired, but no, he said, it was fine. I woke to him smiling down at me and telling me how pretty I was, groggy and puffy, with sleep in my eyes and no makeup on, the time of day I always feel the least attractive.

I was so happy he was home.

We spent the next day, the last day before class, together. I can’t recall exactly what we did, and it’s not important. Revisited old haunts, probably. Shared vacation stories, probably. Laughed a lot, definitely. I couldn’t bear to be away, and so I spent that night at his place, and in the morning he took the bus with me to campus and didn’t leave my side until we were standing outside of my first classroom, five minutes late.

Since then things between us have been as close to perfect as this mean reality will allow us. We see each other almost every day, fool around every chance we get, and there is an endless stream of hugs and kisses even during the most mundane aspects of the day, which sounds fluffy and corny but is so wonderful. We haven’t fought yet, but there have been two instances which were exceptions to our happy norm.

The first one happened two weeks after Leone returned, if I remember correctly. It was a Tuesday, and even though I don’t like to sleep over when I have class the next day, on Wednesdays I don’t start until 11. Leone, who knew both of these things, asked me to stay anyway. I wanted to, but I also didn’t want to either wake up earlier than I normally would because of the greater distance to class or get more sleep but take no shower (I feel very uncomfortable, greasy, and gross until my morning showers. It’s stupid and difficult of me, but I can’t help it). But because we had a date to go to one of Leone’s friend’s house for boardgame night at 10ish, it seemed easier that I just suck it up. Still, I wasn’t sure.

What complicated matters was the fact that Leone (and his roommate) were heading into the city to scope out a night class at a community college. Leone and I already had plans to have coffee after my classes, so he thought maybe I could come over afterwards, and then just hang out at his apartment (ie, do my work there) until they got back around 8. I said that made sense, and it was fine, but I didn’t commit myself to anything else. Or at least, I thought I didn’t.

When I came downstairs to meet Leone for coffee, he looked at me and said, “Where are your things?” meaning overnight things. I didn’t bring them, because I’d mostly decided I wasn’t going to stay over, and if I changed my mind, I could just come back down to get them while he was gone. That way, I could read at my own apartment. “We never agreed that I was staying over,” I protested. He gave me a long look. “Fine,” he said shortly.

At the cafe, Leone was uncharacteristically silent. Not cold, but not warm, either. I asked him twice, “Why are you being so sad?” and both times he was conveniently distracted by something else and didn’t reply. My defense mechanism kicked in. I shut way down. It’s not a good way to handle relationship conflict, and I’m not proud of it, but it’s what I do. I sipped my coffee and closed my mouth. Not cold, but not warm, either. We sat on a loveseat, and after a while he put an arm around me and tried to engage me a bit because he could sense my unreceptiveness, but I’d gotten to the point where it would take outright affection to shake me out of my fear. Because that’s what it was: fear. I knew he was upset, and I was afraid it would mean something bad, so I pulled out before I could get hurt (/self analysis).

When he dropped me off at home he was still curt, and I had warmed up a little. He said he’d call me when he got back, around 8. He called me at 9ish, on his way back. The class had taken longer than he’d anticipated. I made some passing joke. No rise, no acknowledgment from him. He said his friend usually slept early, could we move board game night to later that week? I teased him about his sometimes-tendency to change his mind and cancel plans. He seemed slightly put out. “Hold on,” he said, “[my friend] is calling me.”

I waited. When he called me back not long later, he told me that the plans were back on. They would pick me and his roommate’s girlfriend (who was at the gym) up and we’d go to dinner before heading over. I’d already eaten, but we were going to happy hour at a local seafood place, and I figured I’d just have a drink. Leone put his hand on my knee for the ride over, but I stayed mostly silent because like before I was afraid to find out whether he was talking to me or not.

It turned out, much to our disappointment, that Happy Hour didn’t exist on Tuesday nights and Taco Tuesdays were a poor substitute. I had as much as I could of an absolutely disgusting TT margarita and Leone’s mood was darkened even further by disappointment; he was annoyed that the restaurant presented TT as a great special when in fact it was worse than regular Happy Hour, and he’d been looking forward to a $3 Cheeseburger. The way home was an even colder affair than the way there, and at this point I couldn’t be sure if Leone was more angry at me or at our bad luck (or both).

There were two other people around the gameboard, and the game itself necessitated a good deal of bartering and negotiating, so it was hard to read Leone’s feelings toward me. Certainly something was still amiss; I just couldn’t gauge how amiss it was. He was polite to me, and he smiled at me. Still, there was clearly something missing, some spark, some connection.

Two hours later we thanked and said goodnight to Leone’s friend and crossed the street to the bus stop. We sat in silence for a few moments. I ventured, “Are you still upset?” He shrugged in the most noncommittal way. And then, he spilled.

“I was just annoyed because I had been looking forward to you staying over, and maybe it was a misunderstanding but I thought we’d agreed over the phone that you would, so I was disappointed. It seems like you always make excuses to not stay over at my place, which bothers me because I really like it when you do and you don’t seem to feel the same.”

“That’s not true,” I protested. “I told you why I had to go home.”

He sighed, “I know that, but it’s just when you have class so late the next day, using that as a reason just sounds like an excuse not to be with me. If the problem is that you don’t want to have to get up early or something, that’s fine, just tell me. I want you to tell me what you really want.”

I didn’t know what to say. Later, I would reason that I did tell him what I really wanted, even if I do usually err in staying close-lipped, and why is he under the impression that I don’t like to stay over at all? Then, all I wanted was for him to like me again, and I nuzzled into him and told him I was sorry.

“It’s okay, it’s just been a kinda bad, annoying day” he said, and he hugged me close. We waited, huddled against each other, because it was only midnight and the last bus always comes after. The streets were silent. Leone pulled out his cell phone and looked up the number for a cab while I worked up the nerve to open my mouth. He pressed the Send button, his phone started connecting.

“Don’t call them,” I said. He canceled the call immediately. “I’ll stay over,” I said.

That was the end of that would-be argument, but I kept thinking about it, and the next day over coffee I asked him, “Why do you always think I don’t like you?”

“I don’t think that,” he said. “That one time I said it because I was missing you and feeling very sad.” I hadn’t said anything, but he knew immediately what I was referring to. When he called me from Rome and told me he loved me and I couldn’t say it to him back, he’d confessed that sometimes he was scared that I didn’t really like him, that I was just with him to be with someone (like JT) or because I didn’t want to leave because it would hurt them. None of it’s true. I love being with him and am always reminded how lucky I am to have him and couldn’t imagine being without him. The problem is that I can’t tell him. This is a trend that is destined to happen again.

That Friday, or maybe the Friday after that one, Buttercup, Jasmine, and I were going to a housewarming party, and a few days ago Buttercup had invited Leone to come too. I would have done it myself, but I didn’t think he would come, so I was surprised when he said he would. On Friday morning Leone asked me what time he should show up at our place. I told him 8 or 9.

After class he calls me and asks me again when he should come over. I told him again, because maybe he had forgotten. “Well, I can only stay for a little while, because there’s something else I have to go to.”

“Where?” I said.

He told me that since his roommate’s girlfriend, whom he isn’t even close with and didn’t even used to like (although she now lives with them) was turning 21 the next day, the roommate had invited him to a small get-together at a bar to celebrate and so that she could have her first legal drink at midnight. I’d known about the birthday; she was having a dinner celebration the next day (Saturday) and we were both going.

“You’re coming too,” Leone said.

“Uh, no, I’m not.” I said, trying not to sound like the bitch I was about to become.

“Why not?” he asked, “it’s not like you know [friend whose house we're warming] that well anyway.”

I explained that I wasn’t coming because I already had plans, I’d had them since last weekend, he knew about them, and he’d agreed to be a part of these plans. I told him no, I wasn’t going to cancel on my roommates and yes, I do know the friend at least semi well. I didn’t disclose that I felt hurt and annoyed that he was canceling his plans with me, his girlfriend, to celebrate the birthday of his roommate’s girlfriend, whom he didn’t know well either. I also didn’t mention the fact that I was especially prickly because I’m still slightly put out by the way my own birthday passed. I did rant to Buttercup and Jasmine, who both took my side.

When Leone came over I was distant as he had been to me during the previous incident. Buttercup confronted him half jokingly, half angrily about his cancellation. The girls took a few shotsto get us started, forgetting that none of us had eaten since 2. As a result, three had us almost drunk, when usually it takes us about six to get there. My stomach felt funny, queasy as we walked down the street, holding Leone’s hand. About halfway there, Leone brought up our previous conversation, arguing that it was his roommate’s girlfriend’s birthday.

“No,” I said, the alcohol fueling my courage and anger. “Her birthday is tomorrow, and her party is tomorrow. This is something else. I never got a party on my birthday, I had to go to a neighbor’s bbq. It wasn’t fun.” The last sentences slipped out unbidden as indignant tears sprang to my eyes and I struggled to blink them away before he or Jasmine and Buttercup, walking slightly ahead, saw. Leone looked at me, and I could feel his unspoken words: “we’ll talk about this later.”

The moment we got to the house, Jasmine and Buttercup started setting up a drinking game. I turned to Leone and said, “Aren’t you going to go now?” When he shook his head, I said, “You obviously don’t want to be here, so go.” I may have been a little pushy and harsh.

I joined in on the game, but my heart wasn’t in it…and yet somehow I managed to down two full cups of very strong rum and coke. My sobriety went to the dogs, and so did my memory. Leone called his roommate to tell him that he was going to stay, and then he stayed by my side the rest of the evening, which I tottered through. And which culminated in me throwing up into the bushes by the side of the house. And those on the side of the road on the way home. And into the sink at home. I was drained, completely exhausted, but somehow I managed to pull myself out of bed to go brush my teeth despite Leone’s protests.

And that’s the last I remember of that night. Brushing my teeth. I woke up the next morning, blinking in the light and realising that I couldn’t remember most of the details of the night before, much less how I’d gotten back to bed without falling on my face. Leone was sleeping next to me, on the inside of the bed, kind of squished against the wall, and I felt bad immediately. When we slept on my twin over the summer, I always took the inside because I’m smaller. I needed to pee, but felt otherwise fine (by some miracle considering I was feeling too nauseous to drink any of the water they pushed upon me before I fell asleep), so I stumbled to the bathroom past a sleeping Buttercup to do so. When I returned, Leone was awake, and I climbed over him to lie down on the inside of the bed.

“Do you feel okay?” he asked. I told him I did. We cuddled without speaking much, and his hand wandered south. He rubbed and caressed me down there so gently and earnestly and kissed my neck and chest so softly and carefully that I could feel the apologetic in him, sense that he was trying to make up for something. That’s when I realised that perhaps I hadn’t been too loving toward him the night before.

He confirmed this later, as we were walking hand in hand to our favorite coffee haunt. He said that I’d been pretty mean to him at that party, but that he wasn’t angry or very hurt, he just wants me to tell him what’s on my mind next time before getting drunk and blowing up at him. I conceded the point that I need to be more communicative, and another argument was avoided.

But that’s the common denominator of both these stories. Me not telling him what I’m feeling, him doing his best (and his best is actually pretty good) at guessing, but not before tension arises. It’s something I’ve always known I need to work on. It’s said and written everywhere: communication is the key to making a relationship work. How ours does even through my issues can only be due to luck and Leone, and not at all to me. Thank god for them. And thank god also that he’s home, and here to stay. Summer was great in so many respects, but being without him was nothing short of horrible.

I’m glad you can’t be here, because what you would find would only break your heart. We had worked so very hard to get away, to cut clean, to start new lives out here far away from everything we had known. Little did we know everything would go to ruin and we would be left with nothing more than hollow memories. You, so dearly departed, don’t have to know what it has come to. You, love, departed dearly at the best time, before it all came crashing down. And I was left with the broken pieces, stuck trying to put the sky back together, as if I had the power.

I’m glad you left when you did, that you didn’t have to see me be everything you never wanted, hated, feared. You didn’t have to see me miserable, crawling through every day on my hands and knees, barely able to even remember what we stood for, or that we stood for something, or that anything in the world could even be worth standing for.

It’s better that you’re not here, because I couldn’t bear to see your dreams crushed, your spirit broken, your will lost. I couldn’t bear to wipe away your tears, to hold you in my arms, to have to lie to you and tell you that everything will be all right. You always believed in me. It would kill me to see you realise how wrong you were.

You stayed for only the bright times and were gone before the dusk, and it is all for the better. I’m happy you don’t have to suffer with me. I’m happy you believed to the end.

But despite it all, despite everything, selfishly, stupidly, I still wish you were here.

Leone and I walk by, clutching brown paper bag bagel lunches, sharing thoughts and laughs as we stroll down the street. The man raises his voice as if his chorus for us: “So let your little love light shine….oh, let your little love light shine.” I turn to smile at him; he grins right back at me as he sings. I look back to Leone as we continue along, our little love light shining bright.