I think about her all the time. The longer it’s been, the heavier the burden of it all feels. 

It all happened a while ago, back when I lived in the old place. The beginning is blurry because it was nighttime, and I had been drinking, so I don’t remember that much of how it all started. What I remember most about that first night was that everything I felt tasted so sweet.

There were many wild parties and long nights at the old place. The apartment was built on chaos, but it had two floors, beams, and drywall like any other building. We had a couch that my roommate Ari pulled off the street, a coffee table that constantly wobbled when people put their feet on it, three broken bongs, and one half-broken bong that still worked. We had too many plates, but always needed more forks. Regardless of the state of our home, it seemed that everyone on campus loved it, and our parties only got bigger every weekend. Sometimes people would even bring us more forks.

The night that started all of this was like any other that came before it. It was around 2 a.m., and the party had wound down to about a handful of people lying around on the sticky floor. These people were what we called the stragglers, those who didn’t care if they stayed until Ari and I had long gone to bed. 

That night, I remember I stayed up with them after Ari shut off her bedroom lights. I was in the kitchen when he walked downstairs. He was tall and had brown hair. A simple face but gorgeous hair. We were friends. I liked being friends. He was my favorite straggler and, secretly, someone I had grown to admire after many drunken nights.

I remember making us another drink. I had thrown up most of the alcohol in my system an hour before, and he had just come out of the bathroom. We took the drinks to my room and tried to draw each other with our eyes closed. Then I spilled our drinks on the floor, so I made more. Then we finished those and drank something from an unmarked water bottle. I threw up again. 

I came back to my room, and he was still there. He asked if we could fall asleep together, and I was tired, drunk, and maybe a bit lonely, so I said yes, it would be fine. We tried to sleep at first — but it didn’t last long before I felt a soft tug at my shorts. 

I remember being a bit shocked and unsure of what to do. See, I loved to party, and I enjoyed kissing guys for fun. Still, for some reason, I’d always been too scared to take it any further, even though I was twenty and my roommate made fun of me for being a virgin. I guess I had always been afraid of men, too afraid to want them. I didn’t want another addiction, another escape, but that night, I felt his breath quicken on my neck and him gripping softly on the band of my shorts. I wanted nothing more than for him to pull me in close.

And then it was happening before I could say anything — before I could really think — we just somehow were fucking. I remember feeling surprised the next day when my insides hurt from it and I had bruises on my wrists; I suppose that's what happens when it’s good. It hurt for two days. But I convinced myself I loved feeling it, and I started to feel sad when I could no longer remember the pain. I felt his absence slowly growing and absorbing me like a black hole. 

After a few days, I expected to hear from him. I thought I’d give him some time to think before reaching out. To let the aftermath of our passion marinate and for him to yearn for me in those soft moments right before drifting into sleep. But then, two weeks passed, and I hadn’t heard from him once. We had a party the weekend after it happened, and I just sat there waiting for him to show up the whole time. I sat on the stoop, waited in the stairwell, and paced up and down the hallway. I examined the bruises on my wrist and wondered if it had ever really happened. I got so drunk in anticipation that I went cross-eyed and emptied everything in my stomach into the bathroom sink. I texted him gibberish, and I received no response. I went to bed shaking and alone. 

The following week, I didn’t see him at all. He never answered my unreadable text messages. At some point, my roommate started mentioning it was weird she hadn’t seen him around, since he was always at our parties. I asked her if she’d run into him on campus, and she shook her head. I sat silently while she theorized about where he might be. I shoveled popcorn in my mouth to keep myself from screaming. I felt like he’d taken something very special from me, and in its place left this gnawing urge for more. Like he’d managed to tether me to him without any feeling of obligation on his end. 

By the following weekend, I started seeing myself coming out of the funk, and I stopped jumping at every pair of footsteps coming up the stairs. That Saturday, we had another party, and finally, I was having a good time. Although about halfway through, he showed up. He looked beautiful with his long hair. I imagined cutting off his hair so he wouldn’t be pretty. I wanted to wear his arrogance as a shawl.

He came in and seemed to talk to everyone but me. He had a radar for where I was, so he didn’t have to look around and make it obvious he was avoiding me. My face started to get hot again. No one sensed my embarrassment because no one knew any reason for it, but he knew, and I knew he could feel my eyes and just how hot my face was from across the room. 

Suddenly, I noticed him talking to a girl who sometimes came by. She and I were never close, but we knew each other from these things and had mutual friends. I could tell it was her from across the room and in the darkness of the party because she was real short — short enough he had to bend down, giving him a hideous hunch in his spine, just to talk all close in her face like that. 

My stomach was knotted. I walked past them, making my steps noticeable on my way to get another drink. Why was he doing this to me? I thought we were friends, at the very least. Friends enough for him to say hello and acknowledge me. But I may have made that all up. Maybe I had always liked him, and letting him be the first to touch me like that cemented his one-sided hold on me.

I fumed the whole time I made my drink, slamming ice into my cup and pouring too much liquor and too little mixer. I thought about how this always happened to me. I’d end up disappointed and hurt whenever I got excited about anything. This is another reason I feared being with men. I hated disappointment more than I wanted love. 

I remember it was when I was walking back upstairs with my drink that I passed that short girl. I was trying not to look at her. I felt her eyes bearing into me like she needed me to see her. As if she wanted to rub it in that she had “won.” I kept my head down. I didn’t care if I was rude. He ran after her and passed me down the stairs. I heard the front door slam shut after them, and my heart sank deep into my stomach.

I decided after this that it would probably be best to return to my room and hide my embarrassment. I passed Ari in the kitchen. She was also piss drunk. I remember she tried calling out to me and waving her arms after me. She seemed excited about something, but I did not have time to listen, so I slammed my door to let her know to leave me alone.

I finished my drink in my room’s total darkness and then crawled into bed in my underwear without taking off my makeup. The burning in my cheeks returned as I heard his voice echoing up the stairs, the vibrations and chaos seeping through my walls. I listened as he entered through the front door and made his way upstairs. I rolled onto my side and put my pillow over my head to drown out the sound of his laughter. How could he have been so bold, so uncaring of me, to return to my house after being with her? I wondered if she knew he had come back here. I wondered if she knew where his hands went two weeks ago.  

Despite my feeling ill, the alcohol soon rescued me, and I was in a deep, dreamless sleep, where all I seemed to notice was how my face was buzzing. 

Until I heard it — a soft pat pat. Then, a pause. 

I must have imagined it. 

Then it came three times. Pat, pat, pat. My crusted eyes shot open, and I sat up, facing the door. 

“Who is it?” The tiredness leaked out of my voice. 

“Are you awake?” It was him. 

In an instant, I was fully energized.  

“Can I come in?” His voice suddenly sounded so sweet.

My heart was pounding. I reached down somewhere on the ground for my shirt, but couldn’t find it. He kept knocking. I was frozen in midair, my arm still reaching for my shirt.

Then I looked at the door. The door. The only thing that kept us apart. I knew I couldn’t control myself unless that door was locked. That door was the only thing that tied me to the version of myself that hated him. I stood up. I touched the handle, and some part of me intensely yearned for it to be stuck. I opened the door. It swung towards me with ease. 

Light leaked in from the hallway, cutting into my eyes and revealing my almost naked body to him. 

He slipped past me inside. “Can I chill with you for a bit?” he asked, already walking towards the bed. I was furious, but I knew it would all go away if he touched me. This terrified me. 

“Why would I want to hang out with you?” I tried clinging to my ground. 

He frowned at me. I was fuming, but he couldn’t see how red my face was because it was dark in my room, which gave me power. “You didn’t even look at me or say hello all night! After not texting, calling, or even saying hello to me in person after we fucked, not even two weeks ago! How can you not say anything? I thought we were friends.” I was shaking, and it was evident in my voice. The darkness couldn't protect me from that. 

I wanted to add on about the short girl. But I couldn’t. I thought it was too far, so I settled for what I said.

He took a step closer to me. I could feel the intensity of his eyes. He didn’t have to crane his neck to look down on me or hunch his back like that. Suddenly, I thought about him having sex with her. The spit caught in my throat. 

The resentment didn’t last long as he leaned closer, and I could smell him. I was overwhelmed and lusting; I was drunk and stupid. I hated myself and wanted so badly for myself. 

He ran his fingers through my hair, pushing it out of my face and behind my ear. 

“I haven’t been avoiding you,” he said. Knots formed in my stomach. I knew he was lying, but in the moment I didn’t care.

He was holding my face in his big hands. I wanted to feel those hands, clutching, grasping, as if he let go of me, he’d disappear. I want to be held like a life support. I couldn’t help but inch towards him. 

And then, just like that, he pulled me in and kissed me hard. He kissed me so hard that we fell back and hit the wall. He hoisted me up, letting those hands grip me as he lifted, pulling at my clothes as he did it. He sucked on my neck hard enough to leave a mark, then on my breasts, as he ripped off my bra. He bit down on me playfully and then hard. I forgot everything. I forgave everything.

When the morning finally came, I mourned the heartbreaking first rays of sunlight. He slept on top of me, and I ran my fingers through his sweaty hair and breathed it in. He rolled off of me and groaned. I felt the absence of his warmth on my bare skin, and it felt like abandonment. I watched him sit up and rub his eyes. I didn’t move. But still, I smiled as he turned to me.

With half-shut eyes, he said, “I should probably get back to mine.” 

I nodded. 

He got out of bed and searched the floor for his scattered clothing. I watched his body and tried to memorize how it looked naked. I watched as he put on his shirt and his pants. And then he had put his backpack on, and I didn't know how we were supposed to say bye, so I walked over and hugged him, still in my underwear. 

“That was really fun,” was all I could say. 

“Yeah,” he said, turning towards the door. 

“See you soon?” I felt desperate, but I needed to hear him say it. 

“Sure,” he said. 

I gave him a shy wave as he tiptoed out of my bedroom and quietly unlocked the front door. 

I could sleep now that I was alone. I decided to sleep in until the late afternoon. 

As I slept, I tossed and turned in a sort of limbo, half in the other realm, half still tied to the reality of my bedroom. As I fell deeper into the dream world, I became aware that I was in the attic of a tall house. The attic was dark, with ceilings and walls made of deep mahogany wood, but the bed was pure white. I sat up in bed and walked to a small window. I looked outside to where there was a flourishing garden and saw, down on her knees, an old woman with long grey hair blocking her face, picking weeds from the flower bed. A strange sensation overcame me while looking at her — a feeling of familiarity so strong it made the hair on my spine stand up. I turned from the window, unnerved, and lay myself atop the white sheets, with my back to the door. 

Without a sound, I knew someone else was in the room with me. Goosebumps covered my skin, and somehow I knew that far away in my own bed, those same bumps covered every inch of my body. 

He just stood there. He was tall, and he had no face. He was still, and although he had no eyes, I could feel him looking at me, and my body, and suddenly I realized I was naked. I tried covering myself with a blanket, but when I pulled the sheet from the bed, it felt like it was glued to the mattress. So I ran to the window to call out to the old woman in the garden. When I got to the window, I couldn’t find her. At the realization of this, I was overcome with a sudden sense of grief, not for fear that there was no one left to help me, but because she’d abandoned me.

*

I told myself I would let a few days pass before texting him, hoping not to seem desperate. Instead, I wore his hickeys around like a prize. Ari gasped when she saw them, and I told her I couldn’t reveal yet who had given them to me.

On the day I was going to let myself text him, I started hearing it. 

It came from Ari first. I remember she looked distraught. “You know that girl who comes around her sometimes, the really short one?” she began. “People have been saying someone assaulted her at our party last weekend. Like, tried to rape her.”

I remember gritting my teeth as she described him. “I heard she’s a liar,” I blurted, unable to stop the words from coming out of my mouth. 

“Really?” Ari said. “I always thought she was so nice.”

It didn’t take long for rumors to spread around our circle about the short girl. And about him. About our parties, and the things that happened at them. He texted me and said, “It was great spending the night with you last Saturday.” 

I’m not sure if I started it, but I’ve heard people saying it all around. I heard she’s a liar. Ari told me someone said I hooked up with him the night of the party, and that he was trying to sleep with me that night, not the short girl. Ari asked me if that's where the hickeys came from, and I said yes. 

When I heard the short girl was dropping out, I thought about going to the Dean and telling him everything I knew. I started to feel really bad that she felt she had to drop out to protect herself. I sat on the thought for days. I told myself what a nice thing that would be, but then I thought about his beautiful hair, and I texted him asking if I could come over. I meant to confront him, or at least ask for his side of the story first. But when I got there, he touched my face and ran his fingers through my hair. I fucked him without asking anything. 

When I left his house the next morning, I had more hickeys and no more doubts. The birds were chirping, and I felt at peace. He would have never done something like that to anyone. 

And then I saw her, carrying a big cardboard box that made her look comically small. When she saw me, she looked as if she might drop it, and I was so caught off guard that I stopped myself in my tracks.

She didn’t say anything to me, but I felt her eyes needing to meet mine, just as they had at the party, and I felt a weird sense of déjà vu, as if I were back in my dream from the other day. Her eyes had the same sort of desperation that mine must've had when I was looking out the window for the old woman. And it was too late, too late for both of us.