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Sometimes

I think what happened to me wasn’t that bad, and then my story makes one of the strongest men I know cry, and for a moment I can see its true weight with perfect clarity.

There’s going to come a moment.

Maybe I’ll catch sight of you from across the room at a work function, or perhaps it’ll be a gathering of mutual friends. A deliberate coffee meeting. A chance encounter between two almost-strangers in the street.

We’ll be making small talk. How is work; how is the boyfriend; how is life in New York? That sort of thing.

And then there’ll come a moment when I look at you - really look at you - and I’m there.

I’m back in the club, transfixed by the hunger in your eyes. I’m reliving the flutter in my stomach the day after. I’m immersed in the pain of climbing up that fucking mountain thinking about you choosing him when you said you wanted me.

In that moment, I feel everything. The pain of moving 14,000 kilometres away knowing you’re still there (with him). It’s every drug-fuelled night spent fruitlessly trying to forget you. It’s every glass i’ve indulged trying to drown out the feelings; the truth.

It was you. It was always you.

Sometimes

I just miss you.

It’ll be 2am and I’ll be drunk (again). I will have been through all the stages: the sweet relief of the first sip, the soaring high and the inevitable crash. I’ll be in the cab on the way home, long past the point where everyone seems desirable. My mind will wander to the absence of you there.

I crave you in those moments. It’s not sexual or even romantic; it’s the safety I miss. The emotional vulnerability. The one person (the first person) with whom I can truly be free.

If I close my eyes, I can almost feel it. You holding my hand. Your arms circling my waist, wrapping me in warm familiarity. That cheeky laugh. Babe. I wish you were here.

You know what sucks? Realising that what meant something to you meant absolutely nothing to someone else

Sometimes

I miss how simple it was. There was never any narrative with you. No backstory; no history of past preconceptions.

With you, I could be 2018 Victoria. UN internship, slaying-her-career, expat Victoria. The puzzle pieces of my story were within my power to release if and when I chose.

I had a dream about you the other night. We were sitting in a bed in a room full of people. Some were sitting on the bed and others were crowding around us. I felt nervous at being on exhibit, but you didn’t care. You slipped beneath the sheets as if no one was watching. When I woke up, I craved being carefree.

I saw your picture on Facebook today. Your hair was longer. You looked really pretty.

On her Facebook,

there is a picture. It’s from years ago; a lifetime before this one. She’s dressed as a slutty schoolgirl.

I found it back when I first started liking her. As with everyone I’ve ever liked, I was hungry to know everything. I pored over the years we’d existed in parallel universes, unknown to each other. I wondered what it was like for her.

She isn’t much older than an actual schoolgirl in the picture. It makes me feel weird. Or maybe I feel weird because her cheeks are flushed and she’s clearly been drinking. Everything is in a slight state of disarray, as if anything in the world could’ve happened before the camera flashed. It makes me wish I knew her back then.

It’s been almost two years. Sometimes I think about that picture. It haunts me in my sleep.

Something strange happened today.

It started when my mum asked me to fill out some forms for an insurance company. We are about to purchase a family plan and the company needed some information about my medical history.

“It’ll only take ten minutes,” my mum assured me.

I laughed. “We both know it’s going to take longer than ten minutes,” I said.

I took the forms up to my room, closed the door and started reading. Even though I thought I was prepared, there was something confronting about the long list of medical conditions. The form instructed me to tick those I’d experienced at any point in my life, which was a lot of them. I kept hesitating because it was hard to remember where one illness ended and another began.

At the bottom of the list, the form asked me to provide details of any other illness, injury or medical condition I had ever experienced. I got through a page on chronic fatigue syndrome and described two of my surgeries when suddenly it all became too much. It would take an entire notebook to explain everything and it seemed silly now that I’ve been healthy for almost five years. The form was not designed for a person like me.

I told my mum that we should just send through my medical notes. They were in a file at the top of my wardrobe, marked ‘private and confidential.’ They had been there for nearly as long as I had been better. I had never opened them.

As we talked, my chest tightened with anxiety. It seemed ridiculous to cry but I couldn’t shake the memory of being sixteen and completing paperwork in the hospital. I felt like the form was trying to give me an identity that didn’t fit anymore. I didn’t want that identity. I am not that identity.

I decided that if the form was going to defeat me then my medical records were not allowed to. It was time to open the file.

The first thing I found was a hospital bracelet. It said, Victoria, 7y 5m. I picked it up and stared at it. I have hospital bracelets from my teenage years, but I could not recall a visit so young. Underneath it was another bracelet. Victoria, 6y 5m.

Slowly, I started going through the documents. Some of the pages had faded with age and the doctors’ handwriting was often illegible. But there was no mistaking the dates. There were pages and pages of them. As I got deeper into the file I realised that hardly a month had gone where I hadn’t visited a doctor in my first five years of life.

I was confused. I did not think I has been sick as a child. I remembered running around outside, playing pretend and coming top of the class in school. I couldn’t reconcile comments like “lovely little girl” with “vomited x 6″ and “tired all the time.” In my mind, I became sick around 14.

I started searching for more information. I went through my family’s old computer looking for anything relevant I might have written as a kid. Then I started pulling books out of my desk drawers.

Eventually, I found one I had scribbled in as a teenager. To my astonishment it was full of poems. I thought I had started writing poetry in 2018, long after I had become well. I couldn’t recall these pieces from 2013. Unlike the careful calligraphy I use now, my handwriting was messy. I misspelled words I had known since primary school. The stanzas were flowery and incoherent, as if I was trying to transcribe insanity. The poems scared me.

I quickly flicked back through the pages with the intention of closing the book. I had seen enough. But a dancing blur caught my eye. I realised there was something else; a paragraph I’d missed. I wondered what I could’ve possibly thought important enough to write down that was only a few lines long.

It was a suicide note. I had not seen it since I wrote it ten years earlier. I didn’t know how to feel. I had been fourteen at the time, which seems so young to me now.

I closed the book. I was unnerved by the realisation that reality is socially constructed. With time, I have forgotten how my life once was. The story I tell these days is only part of the complete picture. That has been the price of change.

I can’t get over how unsafe I feel here.

It hasn’t even been two weeks and I’m already starting to feel like I’m suffocating. Part of me has these cravings to go out and get drunk; fuck a stranger; drive a blade into my arm. I want to do something high-risk out of a desire to take back control. All of my old vices are suddenly starting to make sense.

I just feel like everything I do carries weight. I was thinking about what outfit I might wear on the first day of uni and settled on a t-shirt from the Levi’s Pride collection before realising I wouldn’t know how to wash it without anyone in my house seeing. I’m constantly thinking about what I’m saying in a way that I never did before.

Wherever I go, there are memories. They wash over me like a flood. It doesn’t matter whether they’re good or not; I can’t be anonymous. Everywhere is part of my story.

The judgements have been coming thick and fast. I am tired of the questions. Why can’t people just take me at face value?

I think what I’m trying to say is that I don’t feel comfortable being me here. I miss everything about Manhattan: the screaming sirens of the firetrucks, drug addicts berating me in the street, the smell of shit wafting from the corners of the subway cars. I even miss how no one follows the road rules so that you’re in perpetual danger.

One night, I was diligently crossing the road when a taxi sped through a red light. It missed me by maybe thirty centimetres when I leapt out of the way at the last second. The funny thing is, I think I felt safer in that moment than I do now. Half my heart remains somewhere on that street, waiting for me to come home.

I vividly remember the morning I took this picture.

I couldn’t sleep. There were four fitful hours where I made a half-hearted attempt and then I gave up. It was 4am.

I put on my clothes and forced myself to run. Despite it being one of the first days of summer, the cold was bitter. I found it hard to breathe. I got to the base of the mountain and relented to a walk.

I was listening to Melodrama. I had played the album probably a thousand times by that point. Over the course of the months leading up to that moment, I had imprinted my memories onto the songs until they were indistinguishable.

But suddenly the album felt fraudulent. The lyrics had lied to me. My thoughts were too loud and the music was distracting. I ripped the headphones out of my ears.

When I finally reached the top, I almost vomited up last night’s tequila. I walked around the flat and waited for the nausea to pass. Eventually I trespassed onto some private property in pursuit of the best view of the sunrise.

It was fucking beautiful. There was no denying it. Yet its majesty also felt like mockery, as if God was saying: the world isn’t waiting on your pain. I looked at the city and mocked nature right back.

I thought about her. I wondered what she would be doing. I looked in the general vicinity of her apartment and imagined her getting ready for work. I thought about the people she would pass in the street, oblivious to what had happened last night. I wondered whether she would be thinking about it and if she would be sad.

Then I started longing for her, so I left. A few hours later I got on a plane and returned to 1.5 million people I didn’t care to impress. The date was 3 December 2017.

If you convert American time into New Zealand time, it means it was exactly one year ago today. A lot in my life has changed since then. I’m in a different city and by some sick twist of fate there’s a different girl. But the strange thing is that some things have not changed at all.

This is a picture I took this afternoon from the Statue of Liberty’s crown. As I hiked up there, I had that same suffocating feeling in my chest. My brain couldn’t form thoughts that didn’t hurt. When I got to the top and looked at the view, it seemed fitting that Manhattan had shrouded itself in fog. I should know by now that life is easier with walls up.

I haven’t had the conversation yet, but I know what’s coming. This is all too familiar. Long live the day I am seen as more than a liability.

It’s been a while

since I’ve written one of these letters. It’s Thursday evening in New York right now and I’m on the 30th floor of the Secretariat building watching the first lights come on in the city. They are really beautiful. When I’m up here in the skyline, I feel like I’m surrounded by millions of tiny stars. I think you would like it a lot.

There have been a lot of interesting things happening in my life lately. Last night at an event I saw a girl who looked like you and it reminded me that maybe I should tell you about them. Perhaps if I write down all of the things I want to say it will almost feel like you’re here and I can pretend for few moments that these aren’t just secretly scribbled words you’ll never actually read.

I think I’ve finally figured out what I want to do for a career (or at least how I want to start mine). Through the process of living abroad and meeting lots of different expats, I’ve come to realise that I really enjoy the process of building communities. I like putting people in touch with other people who can help them and seeing them make magic together. I want to take that passion and turn it into a paid job, whether I join an organisation like New Zealand Trade and Enterprise or start my own side gig that I eventually scale. I’ve had informal offers on the table to go and work in tech or diplomacy, but nothing excites me as much as this does. Now that I have an idea, my next step is to make it happen.

I think I’m going to stay in New York. I’ve thought long and hard about whether this is the city for me, and there have been many moments where it’s all seemed too hard and I’ve wanted to throw in the towel. But people keep telling me that if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere, and that makes me want to persist. As I’ve started making friends and building a life for myself it’s slowly gotten easier. There is something about the way New Yorkers relentlessly pursue their dreams that inspires me to keep going. I only need to go to Times Square or Brooklyn Bridge and suddenly I feel like I’m in the best place on Earth again. Have you ever felt like that?

Once I’m done with New York I think I might go to London. Or Beijing, or Sydney, or anywhere that feels right. I’ve been trying to do this thing lately where I follow my heart and it’s become one of my favourite parts of being abroad. I like how people have no preconceptions about who I am or expectations of what I should be doing. I can just be me, which makes anything feel possible. I’m scared about how to keep it up when I go home, but maybe I am underestimating myself. My skin is thicker now.

I also wanted to tell you that I met someone. She’s really cool. She’s exactly my type, actually: smart, challenging, confident, self-assured. She has the body of a goddess. She’s different to us in that she’s been out of the closet for a very long time; she doesn’t seem to have any kind of inhibitions about her sexuality. The craziest part of all is that she’s single, and I think she likes me back.

I’ll be the first to admit that she caught me by surprise. I didn’t come to New York looking for love and after you I couldn’t see myself dating anyone else, at least not until I felt like I was fully emotionally available. But then she came along with this twinkle in her eye and overturned all of my beliefs about relationships without even realising it. We’ve both known from the beginning that I’m only here for a limited amount of time and somehow I’m okay with that. I think she is good for me.

And yet, I’m absolutely fucking terrified. It’s funny because with you I was never scared of anything. I had countless questions on my mind but I didn’t care about any of them because I wanted to be with you so badly. With her, it’s as though all of my insecurities are finally coming out. I’ve discovered that I have no idea what I’m doing, and as someone who otherwise always operates in the driver’s seat that’s very unsettling. I’m having to do things like trust my gut and listen to my heart and all of that other unfamiliar crap. It’s a stark change to go from ignoring all of my emotions to navigating with them and I don’t think I’m quite used to it yet.

I can’t help but wonder if that’s what it was like for you with me. Were all of those questions circling in your head? Chances are you probably thought about it much more rationally than I did, actually facing your fears head-on. Maybe if I had done that I wouldn’t be finding this so difficult now. Then again, maybe if I had done that I wouldn’t even be in New York at all. Everything happens for a reason, right?

Anyway, I think those are all of the developments in my life I wanted you to know about. How are things with you? I think I’m getting to the point now where I could probably hear the real answer to that question and not feel it go directly to my heart. I’m interested to know how your job is going and what sorts of projects you’re working on. I will probably understand them better now that I’m at the UN. I’m also curious about your future plans and whether you’re still intending to come home. There’s a chance I might be visiting some of your favourite places between now and when I leave again, but I’m not sure if you care about that.

I wonder how your boyfriend is and how you two are as a couple. I remember seeing a picture you posted a while back and you looked really happy. Then again, sometimes I think your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes, but that could just be me filtering for trouble in paradise. I still hope all of the same things I articulated when I last saw you. That he is good to you; that he treats you well. And I also hope for the thing I didn’t articulate: that he loves you more than I ever would.

I suppose that brings me to the same place I always end up when I write these letters. Missing you and thinking about you, and wondering if you’re doing the same. Maybe one of these days we’ll be in the same city at the same time and we can grab coffee, taking a decent stab at the friendship we agreed to. Until then, I hope all is well.

I can’t wait to see you.

As soon as I read that message tonight, I was hit by this sudden craving for your arms. There’s something so comforting about familiarity. I think when the world becomes scary and desolate we long for the things we know.

Despite the four months it’s been, I’m sure it’ll start with a text. We’ll plan our outfits so that when we turn up late we match in our Instagram pictures. Chances are we’ll split a bottle of wine on my bed until our seriousness dissolves into our secrets. When we finally reach the verge, we’ll dance out the door hand-in-hand, transforming into Bonnie and Clyde.

My favourite thing about our friendship is the words we leave unsaid. With you, I don’t have to fear being intimidating. There is no need to justify my decisions or explain my walls. I see the same things in you that I see in myself, and that makes me feel safe. Never do I ever worry about being too much, because to you I am not a liability to love. We can just hold hands and fall asleep in the taxi on the way home.

I love you. I miss you. I’m so excited.

I can’t get her out of my head.

It’s been less than 24 hours and already I’m finding myself tucked away in some secret little corner of the building, desperate to get these words down. It’s been so fucking long since I’ve felt like this. My brain is on hyper-drive; the memories fresh and flashing.

It starts with the night I first met her, before I even knew she was an option. She stood tall in her leather jacket with her attitude written all over her face. My friend had originally described her as a know-it-all, but later redacted because “she really does know it all.” I knew, from that moment, that she would be my kind of girl.

The second scene belongs to a Saturday morning, sometime around 10am. I’m not sure if I should call it a business meeting or a date. I don’t remember the words, but I do remember a twinkle in her eye. The name of the chapter I know I will eventually write about her comes to me before the conversation is over.

Then we are at a party. We play this game where we pretend to be interested. We blend into the background, making small talk with strangers we don’t care about. When the room starts to blur at the edges, we find each other on the couch. Suddenly I’m lost in this impassioned discussion about the sustainable development goals and the midterm elections. On the subway home, it stays with me. Never have I ever met a girl who’d rather talk politics with me than participate in the party.

The prospect of being alone with her is dangerously exciting. When that time comes, she arrives late: a surefire way to win my heart. She walks with this confident nonchalance, as if she is the somehow both the storm and the calm. When she reaches for my hand in the crowd, it occurs to me that I’m not scared. I’m just happy to be here with her.

We sit in a bar and exchange stories of strange similarities between two girls born thousands of kilometres apart. We have work the next day, but we stay out until 1.30am. I wonder what it might be like to kiss her.

Our final plan is to do brunch. I have great intentions of a two-hour affair, but nine hours later she’s taken me on my first tour of The Met and we’ve braved Central Park and I don’t want to go home. In her apartment, her thigh is hot underneath my hand. There is no sense of inevitability like there is with men; everything that happens between us is because of intention.

She tells me about the challenges of living under this Administration. There is a certain sadness in her voice that reminds me of something Dan Savage said after the election. The essence of it was that the only thing you can really do is love a little harder and commit to living the values you want to see in the world. I make up my mind.

In the hallway, she becomes the first person to ever give me a beaming smile before we kiss. I’m sober. She’s smart, beautiful and enticingly available. Later, I have a terrifying thought. She may not be the woman who broke my heart, but maybe she’s better.

Sometimes

when I was back home I used to have these moments where I wondered if I wanted too much. I was suspicious that everyone was playing along with this narrative of false happiness, burying their dissatisfaction with the mediocre. Would I too eventually be destined to settle?

This weekend, I’m taking someone special on a date to Central Park. We’re going to do brunch and watch the marathon. When the time comes, we’re going to buy pumpkin spice lattes and go ice-skating and take pictures in our Christmas jumpers. She’s smart, beautiful and every bit as invested as I am.

In moments like this, I’m convinced of the worth in every minute of the wait.

It’s late

and I’m tired but there’s no way I’d miss this post. Today it has been ten years.

When I think about my life nowadays, things are actually going pretty good. I’m working my dream job in a city I love. I’ve almost finished two degrees and my grades are the best they’ve ever been. I’m surrounded by wonderful people who matter to me very much. I’m healthy. At 23, I think I’ve done almost everything I originally wanted to do. I let the past be.

But 26 September is an exception. This is the one day every year where I allow myself to reflect. It is the only time I ever remember both the beauty and the pain. Tonight, I am allowed to wonder what my life would have been life if it hadn’t happened.

Despite my best efforts to suppress the memories, when I close my eyes I can still remember it like it was yesterday. I remember my mum picking me up from school. I can remember that final desperate run into the bush to say goodbye. Most of all, I remember watching my home disappearing from view as we drove up the hill for the very last time.

That day changed everything. When I try and explain it to myself now, I think the story doesn’t make sense without an understanding of what I was like as a kid. When I was young, I was different. I was smarter than the kids in my class and my interests weren’t the same as theirs. I was afraid I would be bullied if I lived authentically. Looking back, I think I still believe in that fear.

My strategy for dealing with it was to become reserved. While I never denied who I was, I self-censored. When I was at school I would try to be friendly to the other kids and do my best to listen while they talked about things like Barbie dolls and boy crushes. I would never mention any of the ‘uncool’ things I was interested in such as books and Pokemon. As a result, my classmates treated me with respect, but I very rarely felt connected to anybody. Home was the one place where I felt like I could be myself.

I think the other important aspect of the story is that our house and education were my family’s only investments. There were corresponding sacrifices that help explain why I aspired to be a high-achiever...and why home was so meaningful to me.

Leaving was the hardest thing I have ever done. It was harder than being sick; it was harder than losing any of the people I’ve lost; it was harder than making my American dream come true. Nothing else has ever caused me that much pain.

I think the reason it was so difficult is because it wasn’t a choice. For years I struggled with that until one day I stumbled across a newspaper article about the leaky homes saga and realised that it was no one’s fault. The pain belonged to something bigger than I was. It was a freeing thought.

Nonetheless, I think the experience still influences my life in numerous ways. It occurred to me as I was walking down the street tonight that perhaps it’s why I always feel the need to be in control.

Over the years I’ve pursued all kinds of extreme coping methods. When I was fourteen, my first one was cutting. As I got older I became obsessed with healthy eating. It was strange because when I was 18 people kept telling me I looked great but I was actually eating the amount of calories recommend for a four-year-old. When I got to 22, I started drinking as much as I possibly could when I went out. On many occasions throughout the years I used other people and allowed myself to be the other woman.

I think control is ultimately what all of those things come down to. The greatest irony is that none of them gave me any control at all. There were rushes where I felt like I was in control when I could feel burning on my arms; restricted the amount of food on my plate; downed another shot; or heard a married man talk about how much he wanted me. But in the inevitable aftermath of all of them I just felt powerless. The moments that followed each rush were far more vulnerable than regular life. It was only in those moments that I finally felt the pain in full force. I could be thirteen.

Something I haven’t written about yet is that I went back. It was more than a year ago now, but the thoughts still feel too overwhelming to face. I suppose I knew the day would eventually come where the house would be put up for sale and we could go and visit an open home. I suppose I also knew that I wouldn’t hesitate when it did. And above all, I suppose I knew that it would be different.

It still shocked me. The best way I can think of to describe the experience was like coming face-to-face with a person I thought was dead. I remember walking around unnaturally slowly; my eyes transfixed on every little detail. Of course it was different, but it was also the same. Everywhere I went the memories hit me like a flood. I did not know they could be so powerful. I felt like a ghost wandering through a graveyard.

The biggest change was that the plants had grown. One of the most important things I wanted to do was to go and see the treehuts. I wanted to go into the bush and see if my nut tree was still there. When I got there I discovered that all of the pathways I knew so well were overgrown. Despite the uncountable number of nightmares I’d had about that moment, not once had it ever occurred to me that there would be nine years of growth. It was the strangest thing.

The most important part of all took place in my bedroom. When we first walked into the house and talked to the real estate agent about who we were, she followed us around for the bit. I was not alone, and therefore I felt scared to feel. But eventually we parted ways and I was able to return to my room alone. I looked at it, filled with someone else’s things. It wasn’t even a bedroom anymore; it was an office. I wanted to feel something; the feeling of change from my nightmares, perhaps. But instead, tears with the weight of nine years filled my eyes. I think it hit me how much I had been through. In that moment, I knew that if I cried them it would all be over. I could finally be at peace.

But I didn’t. I think I’m too afraid to face why, and that’s the reason I haven’t written about it. Maybe it was also about control. Maybe, after not having a choice when I was 13, I subconsciously wanted to make pain a decision at 22. Or maybe it was that I’m still not ready even after all this time. Maybe I still hold onto the pain because it is the only thing I have left. It could be both.

Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if I hadn’t left. I spend so much time blocking out who I was that I have to think really hard to try and remember. Actually, come to think of it, I still find it quite difficult to understand my own heart because that involves going underneath the layers and listening to my younger self.

I think I probably would have done a lot of the same things I’m doing now. If I had stayed, I think I would have left home much earlier; I most likely would’ve gone to university in America at 18. I would have believed in myself enough to apply for a scholarship. I don’t think I would have gotten sick. I think I would have become more self-assured sooner. I would have married my childhood best friend, and we would probably be very happy together.

Then again, maybe not. It’s all speculation after all. For all I know I could still have become depressed. I could’ve still been disillusioned, and I could’ve still gotten older and realised I didn’t want to date men at all. In the end it doesn’t matter. You can’t change the past. And if I can still smash all of the goals I originally had in spite of everything, then maybe in some ways it’s okay.

I used to think that if I could go home it would solve all of my problems. After ten years, I don’t think I believe that anymore. Things got worse when I left, and then they slowly got better. At the place in life that I’m in now, I just feel grateful that I’m even here. I never really thought about what it would be like to be 23. I couldn’t imagine making it that long, let alone being happy. As I get older it only seems to get better, and that makes me feel pretty lucky. Sometimes, in the very darkest moments, I still wish I could go home. But it’s okay that I can’t.

I can’t with this poem.

It’s like I’m actually there. When I try and remember how I actually felt, all of the feelings I’ve been suppressing for the past nine months finally spill out. It was so fucking frustrating, that weekend, and I feel just as frustrated thinking about it. The desire is so intense that my hands are shaking; I can’t think. Ugh. For you, is it still this bad?

In another moment of weakness,

months later, I start thinking. About all of the questions I want to ask; all of the things I so desperately wish she could know.

The thoughts come slowly at first. Tantalising; forbidden. Then they are a hurricane, destroying denial and everything else on their warpath. I am ripped raw by their power.

Do you ever just...get sick of it? Do you ever look at him and wonder what it would be like to be with a woman instead?

Remember when you said I made you feel safe? Do you ever think about that? About what it would be like?

Sometimes I think about you. There’s this Hayley Kiyoko album that just came out; it’s called Expectations. Whenever I listen to it, I think about you. There’s one song in particular called ‘Curious’ that reminds me so much of you. It’s about a girl who has a boyfriend but always acts ambiguous. I think of you every time I listen to that song.

For someone who is in a straight relationship, you sure as hell dress pretty gay.

When I was in America I met someone else. Initially I wanted to just not think about you, but to my surprise I actually really liked him. After the first night, he told me it was too hard. That he couldn’t do it for personal reasons. I was hurt for a while and then I remembered I didn’t have capacity to be hurt anymore. I forgave him. I told him it was okay to not be okay, and realised the same was true for me. We became friends. It was cathartic. It also made me realise that I could fly halfway across the world and meet a gorgeous stranger, and deep down it would still be you.

The reason I didn’t call you when I was in Australia was because I thought it would hurt too much. I don’t trust myself. I’m sorry.

Sometimes I think about that one night. I think about us slow dancing in the club; the look in your eyes; my back finding a wall. I think about the answer you gave me right before I kissed you. I think about feeling happy; carefree.

I think about my leg between yours. My lipstick on your skin. My thumb grazing the underwire of your bra. Your hand being mere seconds away from its target when our friend tells us it’s time to go. What would have happened if he had arrived just one minute later? Do you ever think about that?

You watch every single one of my Instagram stories. You haven’t missed one in months. Does it mean anything?

I wish you knew what it did to me. How everything stopped when you walked into that meeting. I remember everything: your skinny jeans, your Doc Martins, that button-up shirt, your cute hat. I was so nervous that I could barely say anything to you. I was on the other side of the room and all I wanted was to be in your lap.

I saw all of those glances. I knew.

You seduced me with everything you said about the bar. I love that I was a distraction. I love that you followed me to the counter to tell me secrets out of earshot. I love that you deliberately dressed in leather and lace with me in mind. I love that we played with the very limits of your self-control. Those confessions are burned into my memory.

Have you ever imagined what it would be like if we had one night together? A long time from now; in another dimension. How does it make you feel?

I’ve started a new writing project. It’s a collection of poems, and when I’m done I think I’m going to try and get it published. My favourite poem I’ve ever written is a true story. I’d love to share it, but I’m terrified of what you would think. Can you tell me?

I know you were in Auckland for a business trip. I understand why you didn’t call, and I’m glad you didn’t. But I wish you had.

When do you come home? Maybe it overlaps with when I’m home. I would love to see you.

All I ever really wanted was to take you on a date. Grab a picnic, walk to the top of a hill and watch the sunset. Go home. Tell you all of the things I want to do to you. Buy you coffee in the morning. No promises, no expectations. Just a chance.

Except this time, I don’t message her. I tap away at my dissertation; 13,000 words and counting. I methodically make my way through my Legal Professional Studies modules. I write process documents, I put together project proposals, I run induction meetings. I plot my move to New York. I do some interviews; my name is in the news.

I let it all speak for itself. This time, I’m not giving in.

I can’t get the thought out of my head.

I’m not...we’re not...I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it before. Nobody’s assumptions have ever mattered. You’re one of my best friends. But if my other friends are asking whether we’re dating, that gives me terrifying pause. Are we?

I wonder if, in all our talk of grey areas and emotional denial, we’ve boxed ourselves in. I thought I knew what I liked and you thought you knew what you liked and that wasn’t each other. That made us feel safe, and safety is helping us to open up. I’ve always liked that being together was not a possibility.

When I try to see it from my friends’ point of view, I can understand how they would get to their conclusion. We arrive together; we leave together. We buy each other drinks, we colour coordinate our outfits, we hold hands. It’s always felt like our secret language, but I can see how it might be perceived as being a couple.

If I really try to unpack it, I feel excited to spend time with you. When I’m around you, I’m happy. Sometimes I’m slightly nervous because I think you’re so much more together than I am and it’s intimidating in the best way possible. You encourage me to work harder, have higher expectations and know my self-worth. You make competence sexy.

I love it when you’re talking about something you’re passionate about and your whole personality lights up. You explain logically and argue with reason; you are always prepared. I’ve never once heard you complain about how much you work and yet you work harder than almost anyone I know.

I really value that you’re there for me. I’ve showed you a vulnerable side of me that no one else has seen and you’ve stayed with me. You might not say ‘I love you’ in person, but you show it in your actions. I think over time there will be many more layers to discover and I’m curious about all of them.

I thought those things were indicative of friendship. I could list countless things I appreciate about my other friends. Then again, I suppose our friendship is unique in that I don’t kiss my other friends at the club or let them sleep in my bed. That’s just you. It would be weird with someone else, but with you it’s comfortable. I trust that everything is going to be okay.

Is this what a boyfriend is supposed to feel like? I’m not obsessed with you the way I usually am with people I can’t have. I’m not head over heels or madly pining. I do love you (a lot), but this is so different from anything I’ve felt before. I’ve never done one of those adult relationships where you fall for someone gradually or healthily. I don’t know what it’s like to date someone who isn’t a piece of shit.

Tomorrow morning, I’m probably going to realise that I’ve been over-analytical and laugh about this. But there’s a tiny part of me that wonders if my friends are right. What if something has been happening all along?

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