Tag: love

Screw the Standard-Issue Labeling Machine

Posted on by Jonathan

Message: “Aunt nell, Nanti hettie. Dooey daiture and quinque, parker, Bona lavs, ducky. “
Polari translation: Listen, I am not straight. In 2025, I give you my best wishes, my dear.

In high school gym class, I often overheard conversations about sexual encounters, stories, ‘advice,’ and asking questions. I remember in ninth or tenth grade, a friend asked me questions about sexual experiences due to my being in a relationship. I felt uncomfortable, as this wasn’t something I wanted to discuss out in the open. I also didn’t want to discuss what started occurring in my life at 17 (that I hadn’t yet  fully processed). Sex was an uncomfortable topic. Romance was different.

Finding the right words or labels

I had always felt romantic attraction towards others. My first crush was on a boy in my kindergarten class, and I realized in sixth grade that I was attracted to girls. Throughout my life, I thought of romantic attraction, not sexual attraction, as a vital component of a relationship.

In seventh grade, I discovered the label bisexual. That identity lasted eight years, since I didn’t know there were other options to define myself. Earlier this year, I reconsidered if the label I had worn for so long was accurate to who I am. After thinking it over, I faced that the most accurate way to identify myself was biromantic and demisexual.

Biromantic is described as “being romantically attracted to more than one gender, not exactly in the same degree, same time, or in the same way.”

Biromantic to me means that I am romantically attracted to others, just not in the sexual sense.

Demisexual can be defined as “experiencing little to no sexual attraction without a strong emotional or romantic connection, falling under the ace umbrella (Asexual).”

To me, this means that I’m only sexually attracted to someone after thoroughly getting to know and trusting them on a deep, romantic level. I’ve never viewed myself as someone who could have a one-night stand or a friends-with-benefits situation.

For the past five years, I’ve reconsidered if it’s safe for me to be authentic in terms of my sexuality. With the rise of anti-LGBT laws and bills, I’m afraid to be open about it in public. If I’m with my close friends and in a safe environment, I’m able to speak about it in detail. Without my community, I’d feel lost. 

The feeling of community does not always take the form of a connection that exists in person, since there are online friendships I hold dear to me. For basically ten years now, I have been an active member of the fandom that surrounds two of my favorite YouTubers, Dan and Phil. 

Many within the fandom (phandom) are also LGBTQIA+. In addition, Dan and Phil themselves are queer individuals, and foster community within their fan base. This has been a positive space for me since I was thirteen, and first discovered my attraction to women/feminine-presenting people. 

A friend of mine who I first met in the phandom once exclaimed while hanging out, “I’m here, I’m queer, I’m gay, and I slay.” This is an example of inclusion within the phandom. 

Although I’m afraid to share my identity in some social situations, I have a safety net. The same net simultaneously protects and isolates me. Two years ago, my fiance and I became engaged. Due to bias and biphobia, I’m often viewed as straight because of my fiance’s gender. 

For example, a classmate in high school asked me if I was “still bi” after beginning my relationship with my now-fiance. I’m sometimes not considered part of  the LGBT community as a result of this relationship. That’s isolating.

Erasure is a concept that I internalize, and I have a difficult relationship with it. It makes me feel uneasy knowing that others dictate my identity. Being part of the community is part of my identity. The intersectionality of all my identities live within me: I am a woman, biromantic, demisexual, neurodivergent, and disabled — all at the same time.

Image of paints that make for a rough rainbow
(Image courtesy of Steve Johnson on Unsplash)

The world we live in now

However, in this current climate, I’m privileged to have that safety net of being straight-passing. I am outwardly protected against hatred in some ways, but still discriminated against. 

After a situation that happened to me a few years ago at a local restaurant,  I’m scared to wear pride clothing. A nearby city didn’t have their first pride celebration until 2019. I know that not everyone in the area supports people like myself. 

That protest during senior year

During my senior year of college last year, students found out about a restrictive policy that was passed by the board. This policy stated that transgender, trans, and nonbinary students were no longer eligible for admission; many of my former peers are trans and nonbinary.

At a campus event with a guest speaker, I felt unfairly silenced. We were told we couldn’t speak out, couldn’t interrupt the speaker, yet weren’t allowed to leave yet. Students who weren’t seniors protested the policy by wearing all black and accessorized with pride flag pins. But, I was a senior. 

Part of me knew that the college administration was restricting students, but part of me didn’t know to what extent. I knew I needed to use my voice for good, since the restrictions were even stricter for students who were not closer to graduating. People in my life warned me about protesting, told me to not get myself in trouble. I didn’t care, because it was my senior year and knew just one extra voice could make a difference. I crossed that line almost daily, every time the administration made changes. I constantly worried that I would be called into the dean’s office, but thankfully I wasn’t.

I was surprised to find out how restricted I was as a student, but not shocked at the same time. I believe I was surprised that the administration thought so low of students, as many of us would not have even attempted to interrupt the speaker — without being told not to. I felt a sense of disconnection between how we as students viewed ourselves and our peers vs. how the Admin viewed us. The local police showed up to the Annual Founder’s Day event after the meeting, without our knowledge. I felt as if Admin viewed anyone who spoke out as a threat, when most people were not. 

Some faculty were supportive of students, and I understand why some were not in the position to risk their jobs in order to support us. 

In response to feeling shut out before, that same month I attended a protest on campus where students joined together, raising our voices to “Rescind the policy.” The administration approved the protest ahead of time. It was student-led, with fixed guidelines allowing us to shout approved phrases, hold signs, and only protest during the approved time slot. The protest coincided with the week that a board of directors meeting was occurring on campus. Once the meeting was over, we could no longer protest.

Following the protest, I joined a few others who were planning on speaking to a local reporter.  I didn’t know if I would be punished for speaking out afterwards, but I took that risk. Loved ones warned me not to do it, saying I would get in trouble. However, after the way the campus climate had shifted quickly under the appointment of a new commander, getting in trouble was the least of my concern.

Despite graduating from college and leaving that environment, I face bias and discrimination still, but primarily due to other parts of my identity.

Anxiety comes upon me whenever I see red MAGA banners in nearby cities or when I come across articles online that mention politicians’ stances. Anxiety creeps in when I visit cities that are dominated by primarily anti-LGBT institutions.

I often don’t tell others about my sexuality upon meeting them since I cannot be sure of their intentions. I wonder if I can attend local pride events — if it’s worth the possibility of being targeted online by someone from my hometown who is passionate in their anti-LGBT sentiments. How accepting a particular state is a variable in determining where to relocate. 

As well as this, I never know what will happen to my loved ones who are part of the community in 2025. I wish there were protections in place for every LGBTQIA+ individual. I wish I could foster that progress.

How I define progress and resistance

I may be ridiculed in public when I wear a pride shirt, but I know my experience isn’t the same as LGBTQIA+ people in other states or around the world. I may have been outed in seventh grade — and called a slur when I publicly came out as bisexual on instagram in ninth grade — yet, I cannot compare my experience to those who were queer activists in the 60s, 70s, and  onward. I don’t know what it’s truly like to fear my life on the daily for who I am.

I can’t relate to the community members who spoke a code language for decades in order to share everyday encounters with their friends. There are no direct terms for biromantic and demisexual in this language. Thus, I most likely would have been referred to as bibi palone (bisexual woman). Polari represents the history of the community during one of many  dangerous time periods for those in the LGBTQIA+ community. 

Survive and thrive

The historical basis for pride was to stand up against injustice, fight for those who can’t do so themselves, and make a difference. Pride at its root is about being authentic, even when social barriers are in place.

I’m not suggesting that others outside of myself should necessarily tackle injustice, as individuals exist in different circumstances than myself. I myself am sometimes worried about wearing pride clothing or accessories. Further, fostering change is not a monolith. It can be carried out through different methods.

Prioritizing well-being and self-care may be the only form of autonomy for individuals. Sometimes, resistance consists of survival and, eventually, thriving. Being true to who I am makes a difference. 

I’m very glad to be able to live with my fiance now. Right now, for me, being myself is resistance enough. 

Arms waving a glowing pride flag in the wind
Image courtesy off Raphael Renter | @raphi_rawr on Unsplash

Raincloud

Posted on by Jonathan

Felicia,
You tell me that I shouldn’t worry, but that’s not your decision.
Every time you text me, you’re distressed from work or family wars,
You put yourself down even more, then assure me that you’re “fine.”
So forgive me for wanting a clearer vision.

I can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt to see you so depleted.
Every day, I wonder if there’s something more that I should do,
To solder all this pain in you, but you dissuade my efforts.
And so this endless cycle goes untreated.

You dress yourself in apathy like it’s the only thread that fits.
A hundred other options would be kinder still in form and shape,
But you wear caution like a cape and pull it tightly round you.
You can’t defend yourself with smoke and tricks.

Anytime we plan to meet, you’re full of smiles and bubbles.
I’m reminded of the younger girl who hoped and dreamed of joys,
Who clawed and fought for stupid boys and cared deeply for animals.
And I really think that soul is worth the trouble.

We dated once, an eon past, in schooldays of simple mirth;
When hormones fused and wrested us, as deep a love as youth allowed.
You have another boyfriend now who treats you like an afterthought,
But you cannot believe that’s all you’re worth.

You ask me often how I would feel if you were to disappear.
How is it that you can chuck about these words so easily?
And threaten loss so breezily when I would be destroyed…
To think that you had given in to fear.

Let me take this time to say I love you without discretion.
Not romantically, our lives are dragging us on different paths,
But a part of me is built to last on the foundations that we share.
You are my family, always, without question.

So I will wait until the weather blows this raincloud blue.
It’s futile fitting plasters on this formless mass your hurting takes,
For I’m one man with no more stakes than any other Samaritan.
But rest assured, I’ll never give up on you.

Window Sweets

Posted on by Jonathan

Coletta Feek was the sole proprietor of the small chocolate shop, Magnifeek Sweets. Her shop remained her entire life and the only thing she had ever actively worked towards. The relationships, and broken days, that she had experienced were, in her eyes, treasures directly resulting from her shop’s success. She had had a honeyed childhood, soul-searching adolescence, and desired nothing. Although her own life experiences were often dressed in ganaches and gossamer doilies, the young woman truly believed that she had felt the kaleidoscope of human emotions already, all due to the wide display window of her shop.

The pane was worn and thin, fogging around the edges where the glass had warped as Magnifeek Chocolates had been everything from a florist to a pharmacy before Coletta had purchased the property. Since the window itself looked rather tired, she did everything she could to make what it housed vibrant. She set false evergreen boughs, dressed in holiday lights, around the edges of the glass and a rich burgundy velvet pooled on the tiered platforms that contained confections of nearly every color and shape. 

Chocolate seashells, a seaswept reminder of her grandmother, sat on pewter plates she polished regularly. Stained glass window cookies glistened next to succulent roulades and mousse cakes dressed in candied rind and mint leaves. Bouquets of chocolate lollipops stunned in vases she had never used for flowers, while her shop’s signature chocolate mice with ribbon tails scurried among the treats, adding the whimsy she hoped her customers would appreciate as much as she always had. 

Coletta’s most precious part of owning her shop was watching passersby linger, if only briefly, at her shop window, because, for a moment, she could see them as they truly were. She had witnessed families, with children who pressed their small faces against the pane, begging their loved ones to enter the chocolate shop. Lovers of every age had sought out the sweets to enjoy together under streetlights as the rumble of traffic hid their whispers from the rest of the world. And, every once in a while, a widower would come to the shop for a sweet bit of respite, remembering who he had held close as a younger man when kisses were still sugar.

The chocolatier had been privy to the lives of her customers for as long as she could remember, which meant that she had also observed the darker shades of hope outside her shop’s window.

…

In particular, she recalled a middle-aged man who lingered a few steps behind the same attractive couple. His hair was red, with a bit of starlight at its edges, and she recollected the patch of silver in his beard, shaped like a roof shingle. The man never spoke to the couple, but he followed them as wearily as if tethered to them. The couple rarely seemed to notice his presence, and, no matter how many times they crossed the shop’s window, they were never speaking to the man whose shadow was interwoven with their own. Coletta once dropped a chocolate mouse when the redheaded man reluctantly pulled his gaze away from the couple and fixed his cool eyes upon her. She stared down at the ruined sweet, crumbled on the ground in front of her,  picked up the pieces and combed the ribbon tail gently between her fingers.

…

The couple continued to walk by Magnifeek Sweets, stopping in for a small box of truffles to share with one another, and, eventually, their affection enveloped even Coletta. She heard the bell ring at the shop’s door. 

“Coletta! Kalev and I are here for some of your divine truffles!” 

“Hello, you two,” Coletta cooed. She always admired the warmth with which Madigan spoke to everyone, especially her Kalev. He was usually quiet, but always cordial with Coletta, while Mads asked her about new confections and the changes in the display window. 

“Coletta, you wouldn’t perchance take custom orders, would you?” 

“I haven’t previously, but I am open to the idea,” she responded while carefully packaging an assortment of truffles, adding two complimentary chocolate mice—one with a teal tail, the other with chartreuse—to the box. Mads had picked up the endearing habit of opening the ribbon-wrapped box as soon as Kalev and she were outside, looking incredulously through the display window at Coletta, then running back inside the shop to grab her hand and thank her for such a kindness.

“There are more than just window sweets here!” she would say, squeezing Coletta’s hand while Kalev tipped his hat to her through the window, still holding the open box of truffles. 

“You’re very welcome, Mads. Please take care of yourself, and see you soon…” Coletta’s voice trailed off as she recognized the red haired man, sitting on a bench across from the shop, staring with those languishing eyes, at Kalev and Mads. As the duo cheerfully wandered off, the man rose and began trailing them once more.

Coletta had come to relish in those moments of quiet friendship between Kalev, Mads, and herself, but she hadn’t the courage to bring up the bearded man and his concerning surveillance of the couple. Instead, she placed her energy into the curious custom order she had received from the lovers. They had asked for some small chocolates, all embossed with the figure of an imposing hound. The couple had never spoken of owning any animals. Coletta had even spied Mads retreating from a stray mutt that had startled her by accident some time ago. But, the order was an easy one. She crafted the chocolates and filled them with peach preserves and pistachio praline, as Kalev had mentioned the order was a gift. As always, she boxed the chocolates up, including a few extra chocolate mice for good measure. While she placed the finishing touches on her display’s delights, sampling a few to gauge their quality (an indulgent ritual of hers), the red haired man was suddenly standing in her shop. The door’s bell had not rung. “Miss Feek, is it?” His voice was high, akin to a young man’s. “Ye-yes?” Coletta corrected herself immediately, years of customer service conditioning her tongue to mouth certain saccharine salutations. “Please excuse my verbal lapse. Welcome, and how may I assist you, sir?” The man did not stir, and he continued looking, almost through, Coletta. The two stood there in silence for a few moments, until the chocolate in Coletta’s hand began to melt.

“Please pardon my intrusion. I have noticed your stares when I am near, especially when Kalev and Madigan are present?” Coletta caught her breath– he knows their names. She steeled herself, wiping her fingers clean with a damp cloth. “They are friends of mine, and I cannot help but notice you have a rather… keen interest in them.” The man’s eyes appeared less exhausted now. “Well, I see you understand more than chocolate,” he muttered quietly. “You see,” his voice rose slightly, “I have a genuine fondness for both of your friends. We knew each other well, some time ago, but those two probably do not remember me.” “Is that so? Why don’t you speak to them then, instead of following them around like a lost puppy?” Customer service be damned, Coletta thought to herself. The man smirked. “That’s a fair point, Miss. In any case, I simply stopped by to thank you for your kindness to them. I shan’t be much more trouble to Kalev and Madigan, and I assure you that I shall not darken your shop’s doorway again–” “Sir, I apologize for my slip of the tongue. You think it would be sweeter with all the sugar surrounding me. Please, take this, and you are welcome here at any time.” She held out two of the extra chocolates with the hound emblazoned on them, nestled on a square of wax paper. The man grabbed the token gingerly, folding the paper gently around the chocolates. “Another kindness, I see.” He looked at Coletta directly once more, and she darted her eyes towards his gloved hand, holding the small parcel. “Tell me,” he said more gently now, “What made you want to be a confectioner?” Coletta, who began looking out her display window fondly, answered with a certainty that years of pride had instilled. “I want to make this world something we want to cling onto, even on desperate days.” She looked up, hoping to gauge the redheaded man’s reaction to her answer. However, he was already walking by her store’s wide window, never looking back.

…

Madigan and Kalev adored the chocolates Coletta had crafted, and Mads embraced Coletta gratefully. “They’re perfect! Thank you so much, Coletta!” she said serenely. “Yes, they are your best ones yet,” Kalev chimed in calmly. “You two are exceptionally kind. May I ask what these chocolates are for? Kalev, you informed me that they are a gift if I recall?” “Precisely. It is the anniversary of my family’s dog trainer’s passing, and we wished to bring a special gift to his resting place this year. It was my sweet’s idea–” Mads interrupted her heart, “Kalev, I just knew Coletta would work her magic! I still remember how kind Mr. Tihar was when we were children– we should celebrate his memory always.” “I agree, my love. Mr. Tihar was like a father to me years ago, and he always had a fondness for sweets. I am certain he would have loved your shop, if he were still alive.” 

…

After Mads had embraced her a few more times, the couple departed, and Coletta was left in the stillness of her beloved shop, with chocolate mice staring back at her knowingly. She smiled, ever-so-slightly, and whispered, “It was lovely to meet you, Mr. Tihar. I hope you enjoy the chocolates.”

Time

Posted on by Jonathan

You were mine while it lasted
In body, in sheets, in endless glances.
You were mine in the frozen hours
Of two hearts determined to love
Timelessly,
In the yesterday of today and
The today of tomorrow,
Your silhouette in my mind where you live and relive,
The memory of my mornings.

We are no longer…

We are sand in tides
Playing with moon cycles
So as not to forget the seconds,
The love within watches.

Yes, that is what we are…

Love in life
Without knowing the end,
Because on our bodies
You left a mark
Which forgetting cannot erase.

Samson in Retrograde

Posted on by Jonathan

My name is Jordan, and I am a music addict

The other day, someone asked me to list five albums I couldn’t live without. At some point, in some future soul-baring discourse, I may reveal my other four, but for present purposes, let me tell you about one: David Crosby’s 1971 LP If I Could Only Remember My Name. 

For someone whose cultural frames of reference, creative ideals, and hippy sensibilities throw me at least fifty years out of step, I’m painfully aware that the next decade presents a likelihood that most — if not all — of my heroes will hear their boarding call to the Pearly Gates from the comfortable seats of their Mortal Departure Lounges, to board their final flight. 

Crosby died and I revived

I’ve been lucky, so far, in prolonging the inevitable. I took a quiet moment to mourn Christine McVie. But the only passing that has truly rocked me was David Crosby’s. The relentless rebel. The progenitor of uniquely uncommercial music and mindful challenges to mindless authority. All the way to the end, he sang musical messages of tolerance which, for most people, went out with the invention of the Espresso Martini and the box-office debut of Wall Street. Despite generational attempts to crush the utopian dream, it lives on in some circles.

The dream didn’t die. Not entirely. In certain corners, mine included, it still lives. 

You see, for me David Crosby represents the eternal rebel — authenticity in the face of fakery, creation over stagnation, reinvention, and the recovery of winning the final battle against the toxic trappings of wealth, power, and propaganda. He lives on as the spirit of something I came frighteningly close to losing: my love of music. 

Almost cut my hair, it happened just the other day.
It was getting kinda long, I could’ve said it was in my way. 
But I didn’t and I wonder why. 
I feel like letting my freak flag fly. 
Yes, I feel like I owe it to someone.
— David Crosby, “Almost Cut My Hair” (Deja Vu, 1970)

Okay, I cut my hair

Unlike Croz, I did cut my hair.

My unforgivable act of conformism.  

As I packed to fly the nest to university, I visualized the in-flight movie of my own life: a first-class law degree it held and the soaring promise of a lifetime in the “Eight-Miles-High” echelon of champagne society. I made an inspired decision: my music and peace-loving persona could not co-exist with my professional ambitions. I had to choose between the circle and the square — I chose the square. 

A suit, a desk, and the slow death of sound

Photo of a long-haired man high above the water on a wakeboard.
(Image courtesy of Abi Greer via Pexels)

My record collection was incarcerated in cardboard, as my listening habits migrated from concept albums to podcasts by CEOs. My guitars and case stared at me from strait-jacketed corners of city apartment rooms, taunting reminders of what I used to be and how far I’ve come. 

Just as the meaning of R&B changed unrecognizably, somewhere — from The Yardbirds to Destiny’s Child — the quiff coif was no longer a symbol of rock and roll defiance. It was the head furniture of a corporate “Yes Man.” My resplendent mane was cut, and with each lost lock, a door slammed on my former self. I left myself behind.

I soon learned that the only thing more miserable than being confined to a desk was its hi-fi electronic appendages beaming surround-sound, direct-injection stress. Fifteen hours a day doing so as a suited and booted, short-haired automaton. Deadlines screaming in stereo. 

Without my daily dose of musical medicine, I was trapped in a loveless marriage to a career, with no visible emergency exit. 

Passion suppressed… 

Personality eroded…

TOTAL SHUTDOWN. 

Coming home to the sound of myself

Photo of a red “No music, no life” neon sign.
(Image courtesy of Simon Noh via Unsplash)

But music has a way of calling you home.

“Why don’t you get back into your music?” 

Sage advice from the reliable co-pilot of my life’s course… 

Sometimes rebellions are small:

Foregoing a business lunch to raid the dusty local record racks.

A slow reintroduction of my favorite sounds to my rusty ears.

Perusing the Lonely Hearts’ Musicians columns for prospective band members.

The uniform started to dissolve. Tie pin swapped for a CND brooch. Gold watch alchemically transformed into a wristful of beads. I scribbled lyrics and chord progressions on the back pages of a legal pad fast filling from the front with to-do lists and financial targets. I was writing songs for the first time in years when I should’ve been working. 

But I was working: doing my real work. And all the while, my hair was regrowing. Past the ears, the collar, the shoulders. Like Samson-in-retrograde.  

Moonlight as a tightrope walker?

Why is it that we reject our passions for professional success? Why can’t a stockbroker also be a record-breaker? A politician, a part-time poet? 

Why can’t an art-loving banker be an artisanal baker? Or a teacher moonlight as a tightrope walker? Why can’t a lawyer be a longhair? With each inch of regrowth, how much did my intelligence recede? Did my legal advice lose its luster? 

No. Those abandoned guitars weren’t telling me what I’d escaped, but what I’d lost. I can combine my profession with my passion, and I should. I owed it to myself.  

Recapturing my love of music was the easiest thing I’ve ever done, because it was what was supposed to happen all along. As I type these words, I’m spinning my copy of David Crosby’s If I Could Only Remember My Name. Its first song: “Music Is Love.”

What You Taught Me

Posted on by Jonathan

Feed a cold, starve a fever.
Forgive, but don’t forget.
Fight for your rights —
That’s what you taught me.

When I needed to be accepted, though,
And appreciated, loved, for who I was
You judged and directed
And praised me for pleasing you.

You… whose every mood needed to be studied and attended to since I can remember.
At least since I was six.

You… who needed her delicate disposition cared for like a child, but cared for
By a child.

When that is not a child’s job.

Ask around.

Oh, I still love you.  

When Forever Ended

Posted on by Jonathan

Day turned into night–
Your warm embrace suddenly turned cold,
And never saw the shadow of the sun

Until forever ended,
You were my safe place,
Calm in a noisy world,
The harbor where my heart
Rested;

You were home,
Not four walls, a roof and doors,
But arms that soothed,
Eyes that saw everything, like window glass, never judged,
A voice that sang love songs,
Legs that never walked away.

But now,
Now, the silence screams,
louder than a music hall, 
Drowning out a thunderstorm; 
Our laughter– once song–
Echoes in my ears;
Even if I tried to forget, 
I couldn’t, I danced to the tune. 

Every morning, I wake up to the ache,
of remembering you’re no longer here.
No longer the home that brings peace, joy, and hope.
No longer the future so bright.
Losing you feels like
A wound that won’t heal.
Maybe it will– tomorrow, or someday.

Now I’m left picking up pieces
of a forever that promised to stay forever
Just maybe, 
My love remains, quiet, and invisible,

But still burning softly,
in those warm corners of my soul.
It will remain till it fades away, forever.

Pondership – When Stepping Back Feels Impossible

Posted on by Jonathan

Love. It’s an enduringly weird and fickle thing. It can lift you up and strike you down in grandiose ways. Sometimes, it’s practically Shakespearean.

Most of the time? Love is just confusing.

First sight

I first met her at university – let’s call her Rose.

She was one academic year below me but three months older. Her hair was that ephemeral dimension between blonde and brown. Her dress sense continuously surprised me – shades of bohemian with thick, colourful jumpers, home-knitted cardigans and crop-tops, and stunning, flapper-style dresses.

Most striking, however, was her wit, her timing, and her inability to take any group photo seriously. She was desperately funny, a maestro of sarcasm and deadpan, not to mention her insane musical talents.

She was so… irreversibly herself.

Lying below the surface

In my third year, I spent an increasing amount of time with Rose. We performed together, crewed shows, attended nights out… So much so that she became an integral part of my core friendship group, which kept us tightly in contact until graduation.

Our summer together in 2023 was idyllic. Both of us had endless time on our hands now that classes were dismissed, and we all lived in relative proximity. Every other day we’d be round someone’s house playing video games, board games, or “hide and seek in the dark with objects” (not as kinky as it sounds). We’d be swimming in the Thames near Englefield, taking trips to Thorpe Park, kicking about on the university green. 

I never realized how much it would hurt when Rose was the first to travel back home.

Detachment

In July, I graduated. Soon after, I’d settled in London for my Master’s degree and my daily routines took on a new, intense focus.

By December, I was struggling hard with detachment. Sounds silly now, but I’d assured myself that the finest hours of my life had come and gone. I was procrastinating endlessly, dwelling on memories and choices that couldn’t be reversed. My productivity was at an all-time low. Throughout this malaise, I realised one face was cropping up in my imagination more significantly than any other. Feelings I’d long since suppressed started to make sense.

Suddenly, I’d developed an unquestionable, irrevocable crush on Rose.

Collision

What was I thinking? Rose was still completing her third undergraduate year. Any potential relationship would be destined to be long-distance, even if she felt the same way. We were running in different circles now. Plus, I came to realize that we’d never spent any one-on-one time together outside of our friendship group. We could be completely incompatible. There were so many obstacles… but I had to try.

Thus, in January of 2024, Rose and I collided on the streets of Windsor for a delightfully sunny afternoon hangout. We had a gorgeous pan-Asian meal at Banana Tree; reminisced on university memories, laughing anew at inside jokes; took a long walk on the Long Walk as the sun came into rest; caught up on dream musical theatre roles. The synergy was pouring forth. Everything felt easy. Freshly exciting.

So, I confessed to her.

I can look back on it now, say it was too awkward, too convoluted, I didn’t use the right tone but Rose always knew how to make a situation comfortable. She said I was a dearly special friend but that she wasn’t in the right mindset for a relationship at that moment. It was an elegant, compassionate refusal.

That was that. Job done. Feelings addressed. Everything was set in order. Or, at least, that’s what I hoped for at first.

Who was I kidding? I couldn’t let Rose go so easily.

When stepping back feels impossible

I imagine most of us would give anything to crawl into someone’s mind and see a situation differently. I certainly could have cleared some things up in this case. Alas, I latched on to any hope I could find. It wasn’t a “no,” I kept telling myself. “Not yet,” maybe. 

Rose probably needs time to rearrange her own feelings. It hasn’t been too long since she ended her last relationship. Yeah, that’s probably impacting things.

I continued to see Rose as much as possible. I would over analyze the tiniest interactions, searching for heightened affection – for instance, when Rose hugged me not once but twice the first time we saw each other again (after all, no one else got two hugs, so far as I could see). Or when she started joking about me with her mum following her end-of-year performance. Clearly, I was the butt of some inside family joke and that excited me beyond words.

Simultaneously, there was distance between us. Rose could hardly hold my gaze if I was talking to her. I initiated almost all of our conversations. Messages I sent would sometimes linger for several weeks before getting a response.

In hindsight, the mystery was the most attractive part – the curiosity of sourcing a reaction. Wanting to uncover potential unsaid feelings. Wanting my idea of Rose to align with the real person.

Of course, it was only the idea that I loved romantically. The idea was bountiful when the reality was not. Ultimately, I had to let go of this ethereal version of Rose I’d formed in my mind. But how do I break up with something that doesn’t exist?

(Image courtesy of Kelly Sikkema via Unsplash)

Pondership

This was the word I kept using when talking about Rose with friends – a “pondership.” There’s a lingering attachment phase when a confession has been rejected. Not quite a friendship, not quite a romance: something in-between, something confusing. An unknown state. A Schrödinger’s relationship, if you will.

The more I thought about this term, the more I realized it could help me. I started pondering an entire relationship with this fake Rose I’d created, from the outset of dating to an eventual separation. The purpose of this wasn’t to live in any sort of fantasy. Really, it was quite logical. I specifically looked for rough patches, scavenging for drawbacks and dissuasions. I evaluated where I wanted to be with my life and routines, weighing these against the progress Rose was making.

Steadily, something started to shift. I was able to attach negatives to romantic involvement, though Rose and I were far from dating. I was able to step back gradually, separate at my own pace, and respect Rose’s boundaries. 

I fell out of love. In that process, I realized – we were growing up. I think the major reason I fell for Rose was to hold on to my university days, those long nights in the summer and the cocoon of a moment that felt transcendental.

Moving on

Everyone has a first love. Not your first partner, not your first physical experience. The first person you obsess over. Lose sleep over. The person who destroys your productivity with intrusive thoughts, who makes you want to change who you are as an individual, to be better and more complete as a person.

Rose was mine.

Rejection sucks – let’s be perfectly honest. When everything aligns in your head, any interruption becomes such a destructive feeling, so be kind to yourself. Give time to that pondership phase but never lose yourself in it. However impossible it may feel to step back from the idea of perfection, it is possible to crack holes in that façade with enough discipline. Everyone’s process will vary but the sentiment remains the same:

Love is confusing. Definitely a tad Shakespearean. And it’s also one of life’s greatest lessons.

When Distance Tests Love

Posted on by Jonathan

Sweethearts across the miles

On a very sunny and boring afternoon, I got a text from a strange number that simply said Hello. I replied out of bored curiosity, and the stranger introduced herself as Amaka. Amaka was my seatmate in primary school, who apparently has always had a crush on me since then. She told me she searched for me all through her high school years and found my contact information when we were entering university. This whole conversation was the beginning of a new world for me.

Amaka is a beautiful girl, naturally endowed with an amazing body that would make anyone’s jaws drop. Her melanin skin radiates as the sun touches it  — oh, what a beautiful sight! A brown-skin woman with all the flair of an African Queen. Her smile could heal a broken heart, make everyone’s day, and even encourage me to keep going. She has the mind and soul of our ancestors, she speaks with confidence and stands tall in stormy times. How could I resist such a person? I tell you confidentially that this woman was my soulmate.

So our love story begins…

We got to talking. She remains in our hometown where she is awaiting a letter of admission from her chosen university. I, on the other hand, was working long hours day and night in a different town a ways away, making a whole lot of money while I was still young. Just like in the fairytales, we spoke at length every time we possibly could, day or night. Falling in love with her was the easiest thing I’ve ever experienced. Within that first week, I was entirely ensnared. I started sending out presents and buying her gifts. 

She was my anchor after a very long day at work and encouraged me when I was feeling lost. We gossiped about everything. 

As with any person, I had some cold days. Days where you feel off, days where you’re really out of your zone and need a hug, days where it feels like the world is heavy on your shoulders and all you need is a kiss and a long cuddle. 

I trust you

This was an issue we worked on, and I was shocked about the response I was given. Amaka told me that I could have a side piece who would be there for the cold days. All she asked was that I always came back to her. I wasn’t comfortable with it because that’s not right, but I believe “I trust you” carries a greater commitment than “I love you.” Love cannot exist without trust, after all. Even if love doesn’t work that way, I understood she was willing to sacrifice part of herself by sharing me with other girls. In actuality, she has a part of me all to herself. 

A  meeting with fireworks

So after a few months went by, I traveled to meet the love of my life. It was one of the best memories I have ever had and I still wish that day could be repeated. I went to visit her at her apartment the next morning and she looked even more beautiful in person than in pictures or on Facetime. I walked calmly towards her smiling with my imaginary fireworks shooting in my chest with excitement. I hugged her with all the joy in my heart and, oh my goodness, she smelt like angels ought to smell -– a perfect woman. I was welcomed with a warm kiss and, honestly speaking, it blew my mind and made me blush.

Amaka invited me in to eat dinner with her, which was a perfectly prepared Jollof rice with Goat meat. Damn, she really knows how to cook! As that saying goes, “A way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” she paved her way right in with concrete. We spent the whole day together and it was great. We had a lot of fun together and created everlasting memories. 

Of course, the fairytale had to end and I traveled back to work after two weeks. After a while, I even had to move to a more distant town than where I used to live, increasing the ever-so-long distance between my soulmate and me. Despite my toxic trait creeping in where I avoid my issues until I must resolve them, she remained my ever-steady soulmate. Every time I had an episode, she would patiently wait for me to return. I haven’t had anyone love me that deeply before. Regardless of my faults, Amaka was determined to be mine and always waited for me no matter how many times I left. 

As life moves on without labels

Fast forward two years down the line, during which we haven’t physically seen each other in person as life had other plans for us. We weren’t able to have conversations as often as usual, and the distance made everything seem to drag by slowly without each other.  We decided to be lovers without a label. Yeah, you read that right – lovers without a label. She wasn’t my girlfriend by name, but was totally in love with me and the same went for me. 

We couldn’t tie down each other’s wings as time passed on with life taking us in different directions. 

We still speak and text like lovers.  

I know she might be waiting on it like me.

“Babygirl, so you know, this isn’t the end yet.”

A girl holding the hands of an older woman from behind.
(Image courtesy of Antonio DiCaterina via Unsplash)

You and Me Against Sanity

Posted on by Jonathan

When none of the fireflies stayed alive for long enough in the jar, I stuffed it with Christmas lights and kept it on the table beside my bed. While I wrote those words inside my heart, like a love song, I realized I was still thinking of you.

Are you thinking of me as well?

They always say we think of the one who’s thinking about us. So, I wonder if we’re both counting sheep on our different beds together while I’m staring at my phone, thinking should I call you?

Do you remember the way I smiled at you? Did you read the message among all the jokes? I never knew how this would’ve felt, and believe me, I tried to fight it, but the joke always seemed to fall on me.

I’m terrified sometimes 

Even though I have your love, I’m always thinking about what I’ll do to jinx it.  What if your love and passion finally run out because you seem too good to be true? 

Am I the only one missing you too?

When I lie in bed, I feel your fingertips move gently across my cheeks. I feel your breath upon my lips. I’m sure… If I close my eyes a little bit tighter and hold onto my breath for a little longer, I might feel your lips, fast and fleeting, upon my skin, like a breeze.

Time stops for a moment, and suddenly it feels like I’m in nirvana… but then, reality sets in. I open my eyes and I try desperately to hold onto that never-fading memory. 

I wondered. Could our souls, possibly, connect? Perhaps, through this soulful connection, I’ll understand what you think of me. It is this feeling that makes me feel like I’m going insane.

My silver bullet?

It’s more than just a passing infatuation. I can’t imagine my world without you… even if the only place I can be close to you is in my dreams!

You’re like a drug… a drug that keeps me alive, almost like a poison.

Should I feel hopeful? Should I keep telling myself that maybe I am yours, too? I can draw you out with my eyes closed, and pick you out in a crowded room with similar faces. There is just something about you that I keep asking myself… 

You intoxygenate me. Is this love or madness?

I know I’m not supposed to think about how I could feel your eyes meet mine for a split second. Probably because when I look deeply into your eyes, I feel your hands entwined tightly around mine like a glove. I shouldn’t look at that picture of us on the ceiling of my room. I want to hug my pillow, smelling like you, and that has your face on it. However, unlike any other fragrant perfume, yours stood out because it was natural. 

So yes, maybe I want to indulge in my fantasies this one time. I ignore the mess across the floor that I glimpse from the corner of my eye. In that very moment, I imagined you next to me, with cards still stuck in my feet, or the scattered pills and drink that left a trail to the bathroom. 

Meanwhile, a once perfectly arranged table is face down. The image of red liquid flowing from a glass of wine and pieces of paper, maybe love letters, across the floor,  could all fit like a puzzle…

Within this pattern lie the necessary words to fulfill our promises — for both me and you — against sanity.