Nine.

Enter part two of two, my simple thoughts on how love didn't enter my life and still left its mark, indelibly so.

I remember regarding the vicissitudes of my love life in 2014 rather wryly.

I felt caught between—by—a trio of men: my personal triumvirate, I'd named them amongst my closest friends. Alberto, Stephen, and John were united in my mind by their graduation year, as all three were just one year ahead of me in college, as well as by the persistent notion I'd had that they'd all resided at the same dorm in their freshman year. Although they weren't personally acquainted with one another, they knew of each other, perhaps mostly through me and the stories I'd tell them of the others. I'd met them independently as a sophomore during what I'd later come to view as the most formative year of my love life thus far.

By 2014, I had already created defined roles for each of them in the narrative of my life. Alberto was the loving boyfriend who would soon depart for the next exciting chapter of his life, Stephen was the off-limits figure with whom I had palpable chemistry, chemistry that I pointedly chose to ignore out of fear that I would do something I'd regret, and John was the equally beautiful and philosophical man whose presence was profoundly aspirational. While graduation brought separation for Alberto and me, it also gave me space to explore myself with the remaining two.

I confess that there aren't enough words for now to give as much attention as I'd like to Stephen, but that's fine; John was always today's intended focal point, most specifically because he was my formative one that got away.

When I first met him in China Gazing, the seminar we shared, I didn't think much of him. Honestly, I didn't pay much attention to any of my classmates; 2013 was a busy time for me, and I was perennially preoccupied with my seventeen-hour days.

John set himself apart from the rest of our classmates with his insights during our roundtable discussions. China Gazing was one of our college's few courses that examined, broadly speaking, Chinese culture and society via its presence within the proliferation of written materials and literature produced by Westerners; it was one of few meta-analytical courses taught at my college that dealt with my heritage as parsed through Western conceptions and could easily be put into conversation with the discursive output of Edward Said, which explains my interest in the subject matter…and John's, too.

John grew up in San Francisco with mixed Irish and Chinese ancestry. Later, I would marvel at his prodigious command of Chinese, particularly his fluency in Mandarin outpacing my own despite him having grown up in a Cantonese household. (Plenty of people are capably or equally fluent in both, but his mastery was all the more impressive to me because he is a second- or third-generation Chinese American.) In class, his essays and input stood out to me from the rest because he spoke eloquently (and without pretension) while offering novel analyses of our coursework; suffice it to say that, almost immediately, it was he who I strived to emulate. Merely knowing that he would hear what I had to contribute to any discourse was enough motivation for me to devote special effort to my preparations for class—I wanted to appear nothing less than erudite.

In hindsight, John was probably my first intellectual crush. Everything he said seemed to be something that nobody else had ever conceptualized, and his writing seemed full of references both seminal and obscure that I could build an entire syllabus around solely his bibliographies. Perhaps I myself was simply unlearned—he'd had an entire year of life more than I did to study, after all—but wasn't that the point of college, to be surrounded by intellectuals and inspired? While my friends were off reading Foucault and Freud, I wanted to read John.

I can't say that I remember how we became friends, which is probably to say that it wasn't too important. Class ended with the semester, and I no longer had anything in common with him, but I would still see him around, sometimes. As I ascended the ranks of our student government, I ran into him more and more often because he had a vested interest as a composer in our music club. As the class of 2014 graduated, I was suddenly single, and I found myself attending the same graduation party thrown by our college. He, too, was single.

I remember being plied with wine by all of my friends. I remember being a nuisance, walking around to tipsily ask all of my gay male friends in attendance why they weren't attracted to me (to which their joking response was that they were). I remember seeing John from across the room and making eye contact with him. I remember walking directly towards him, ignoring anyone and everyone else. I remember us sequestering ourselves within the photo booth for hire, and I remember kissing him for the first time.

I don't—didn't—know what I'd expected. It was as if kissing him unlocked from deep within me a torrent of truths that I had never given the space or effort to confront, that he was ridiculously handsome from the shape of his eyes to the sharpness of his jawline, that I was immeasurably attracted to him but never realized it because I'd locked away in the recesses of my psyche even the tiniest inkling of attraction to anyone else because I already had a partner. It wasn't just that he was smart—it was also that he was unbelievably beautiful.

I had a Lily Allen concert to attend, but, later that night, I slept with him in his Harlem apartment.

I remember feeling bewildered. I remember clumsily going through the motions in his bed because I was freshly out of a relationship, and I was in complete disbelief that the most stunning species of man was interested in me. I'd never been with anyone else other than my first boyfriend, and I wasn't sure how to behave in uncharted territory.

I hate to say it, but it was also uncanny because he was kind of an older brother figure to me. He was someone who sort of looked like me and therefore also had gone through life facing similar obstacles as I did or would. I often went to him for advice, whether personal or academic or philosophical, and I treasured his presence in my life. When our relationship became physical, I felt awkward because I felt that I didn't measure up. I didn't feel insecure, but I felt as though I still had some growing to do.

I think I botched it. Over the summer, our time together was marred by him trying to figure out his preferred type of employment and, predominantly, me trying to answer the question: how soon was too soon? I liked John a lot, but conventional wisdom said that any relationship that developed too soon after a prior relationship would be doomed to be a rebound and nothing more. But, I didn't want him to be a rebound, and I certainly didn't want him to feel as though he was one, because I liked him a lot and I wanted his company. Still, between that and my lingering sadness for my breakup with Alberto, I felt like a mess. Summer was here, the days were warm and I had all the freedom in the world to move on with my life, but I felt intuitively that I needed to slow down and process. I wanted to be with John, too, but I was afraid of being inadequate.

I remember a conversation over brunch with John at Serafina that to this day defines the restaurant chain in my mind. I remember him offering to bring me Chipotle on a day when I was particularly depressed. I remember having my read receipts on for text messaging and leaving his messages to me unread, because I was possessed by some ridiculously misguided notion that being fair to him meant nipping our budding situationship or relationship or whatever it was, because I was afraid of breaking his heart, too. It wasn't quite cutting off my nose to spite my face, but it may as well have been because the end result was the same: I denied myself what I wanted for no reason other than to appear noble and soured my relationship with him in the process.

Seasons later, he invited me to his birthday. It was a casual gathering of the people in his life as he celebrated at a nightclub, and I showed up late. Again, I was awkward, but I knew I still liked him, and I felt more ready to explore that. As we greeted each other, I wanted to kiss him—but he was no longer interested. Embarrassed, I ran away, hiding myself in a bathroom stall while one of our mutual friends consoled me over text messages, telling me that the timing just wasn't working out. The next year, he moved to Hong Kong.

Honestly, I don't know if he was actually the one that got away. I don't know if we would've worked out. Our interest in each other was reciprocated, but everyone tells me that the right person at the wrong time is still the wrong person.

It doesn't matter. Whether or not he's actually my one that got away is immaterial because what matters more to me is that he was the first in my life to personify that trope: whereas Alberto set the standard for the boyfriends I would come to have, John set the standard for the boyfriends I would come to never have. Again, it all came down to choice. I chose to commit to Alberto just as I chose not to commit to John. I pressed myself to avoid making John my rebound but, in retrospect, I should've just let myself go all in instead of imposing arbitrary rules upon myself for no rationale other than to perform correctness, as if there's a correct way to accept the love that entered my life.

A decade later, John was one of the men upon whom I relied during my year without water. Time's distance did little to separate him from his big brother archetype in my head. As I parsed my newest breakup with him, I confessed to him that, all those years ago, I'd loved him, too, and that I was sorry for how I had behaved.

I suppose that my experience with John taught me not to fetishize a perfect goodness, to not let it stand in the way of romance, because there is no perfect love. It's taught me to accept the flaws that realistically accompany any relationship, which therefore has empowered me to go after what (or whom) I want—not just someone who checks most, not all, of my boxes—because perfection does not exist.

Equally, I've been wondering whether I've ever been that person for anyone else. I've wondered whether any of my exes look back at me as their person that got away, but I suppose it's all moot. I think I might have been idealizing the role of the one that got away out of fear—fear that I wouldn't be the one that was chosen, birthed from a childhood of being the one that was left behind. Yet, all my insecurities and arbitrary rules have done nothing but prevent me from living the life I've been wanting to live, and so I'm now choosing to stand my ground as I stare down my future. I've come to conclude that I'm not going to be the one that got away, anymore or if at all—instead, I'm going to be the one that chose to stay.

It is, after all, the more interesting choice.