Hey Jose,
Forgive me for writing this in so public a forum. But the fact is, I love you. I'm leaving you, and I love you.
I'm moving to San Francisco in a few days. You know that when I leave, our relationship will end. That's what we've decided to do. It is probably the best course. Now that I have graduated college and you are still a student, my life will move in unpredictable ways now and I do not know where it will go. I have to be free to follow it. You have to be free to follow yours, too — to study, find a job, find more love, and be the person you will become.
You know I have to go. I have to see what I can do there. I have to try and make it in the world. There are no chances for me to work professionally in this little town we live in, this place I found you in, and I will not be happy here if I stay. It's time for me to go.
I've written in the past about my little regard for relationships and repeatedly scoffed at the idea of dating. I would like to take that all back, if I can, because I fell in love with you. I was wrong about love and commitment, things that scare me and probably scare everyone.
When we met, we knew that we were a bad idea. The sex was great. The relationship was casual, easy. But sex led to sleepovers, then movie nights, then eating together. I met your friends, and one day — you remember the day, on the blanket, on the lawn, when I laid down beside you and kissed your hands — we knew we were something more than friends. And then I showed you this blog. The next day over breakfast, you said, "You think relationships are nothing."
You were right. I did. I have presented those who value dating as childish and delusional — as children believing in a fairy tale. But I found the fairy tale. It's real. How stupid of me to think I would never find someone who fills my thoughts this way, who makes me feel loved in a way I have never felt before. You changed my mind. It's that simple. You are not committed to any fantastical idea of love. You are realistic. You know what it is. You knew what we were doing, what the risks were, and you still said, "I want to date you." We discussed limits and boundaries, our different desires and requirements — mine, as we have learned, were harder to deal with — and we knew our chances of lasting long were slim. I was graduating soon. But still, we did it.
I was president of the LGBT student group. You attended a meeting one night. You stood in the back. I saw you. You had your sweater tied around your waist and were wearing a cutoff Marvel comics t-shirt. I noticed you across the room and you noticed me. After the meeting, you came up and asked me, "Are there any Cokes in the refrigerator?"
I didn't really understand the question — I didn't even know we had a refrigerator — but then I remembered there was a small kitchenette near the entrance. I led those meetings for three years and never once looked in the refrigerator. It was an absurd question, an awkward effort to make conversation with someone (me) you thought was out of your league. Meanwhile I thought you were out of mine, unreachable in your beauty, and I was grateful you gave me just a simple question to answer, an easy problem to solve, rather than a come-on, a flirt, because I would have made a fool of myself.
I think I said something like: "You can look. If there are any, take them." As if I had authority to say what could and could not be taken from this communal student club room, one that many student clubs shared. But take it, it's all yours. You asked that stupid question at the last second because you got nervous and didn't know what to say. You were going to introduce yourself, ask me out, whatever, and in the end, all you could do was ask me about Coca-Cola.
You nodded and walked away, and I forgot about you. The next day, I looked at Grindr and saw your message. By sheer chance, we both lived in the same dorm — you were a few floors down. I walked to your door. You kissed me in your room. We took off our clothes.
Then we had dinner. Then we went on a date. Then another date. Then afternoons doing homework together. Yes, it would be hard, but we'd ride it as long as we could. Love never thinks ahead.
You soon knew my views on sex. We saw it differently, and this was a struggle for us. I wanted more freedom than you felt safe with. I promise this is not the reason I am going to California. I don't know if you believe that, but it is true. I'm going because I have an opportunity there, and because we, as young men, have made some kind of promise to put our careers first — to not hold each other back. Is this the right way to do things? How will we know? I may look back at this decision and regret it forever. If so, I will add it to my list of regrets, people I should have loved better.
I remember the moment I told you I was going. You didn't speak for several minutes. You looked away. We both knew this was it.
In the weeks since, I have been watching you in the shower. You're happy for a moment, then you break. You remember that this is coming to an end. You check your happiness as if every warm moment now will create greater hurt when we say goodbye. And you're right, it will. For what it's worth, my heart is breaking too.
I will be in some other city someday, a little older, remembering how you looked in my bed, how I held you close and felt you breathing and could do nothing, and I will regret leaving you. I will not regret loving you. I will be grateful for this, now, whatever it is, how brief and good it was. There is nothing to say in my defense. I love you, but love is not enough. If you were in my position, I would tell you to go.
I return all the time in my mind to when we met. I see you coming up to me through the crowd with that ridiculous question. I go back to you, again and again, reaching through the crowd, but you're gone.
Jose, you have my whole heart. Thanks for loving me back.
Love, Beastly
(Above image: Jose go-go dancing at Club One.)