Thirty.

Enter part one of two, about a boy so handsome I wanted to lose myself in him.

Somewhere out there in the vast expanses of the internet is an essay I once wrote about Raul. I published it anonymously, because it wasn't about him or me but, rather, about us and the electricity I felt between him and me, an attraction I hadn't felt since six years prior by the time I met him, not least because he would become one of the two most beautiful men I'd ever dated. We never made it to a full-fledged relationship and I don't even consider him to be one of my exes, so "dated" might be too strong a word, but it's the best catch-all term for whatever transpired between us.

Raul had only just celebrated his twenty-ninth birthday when we met, though I didn't know it then. He was off to watch a debate between vice presidential candidates Kamala Harris and Mike Pence, and I was busy packing up my belongings as I prepared to vacate the apartment I'd shared with Jun, so we made plans to meet up another time.

I was fresh out of a three-year relationship and ready for a new beginning. I had immediately resurfaced my old profiles on Grindr and Tinder, hoping to make new connections and squander no more time because I saw those three years as a waste of my youth. I had friends in committed relationships, friends who had already gotten married, and I hated that I felt behind. I needed to start from square one all over again. Raul, as good-looking as he was, represented potential.

It was a brisk October night when I walked over to the former Angel's Share location by St. Marks, a cocktail bar I liked for its intimate setting and unique cocktails. I had asked him to meet me there because I wanted him to not negatively prejudge me for my choice of bar, because he seemed handsome and chill and I wanted to be liked by him, and Angel's Share was good enough: widely regarded as one of New York's best speakeasies with drinks built around Asian palates, I knew it would be neutral territory and a good starting point for our conversation. I remember fidgeting with my faux leather Uniqlo jacket—I was nervous. I wanted him to like me.

My first order was the Flirtibird, a drink mixing shiso and yuzu with shochu. I'd loved it for years as my favorite cocktail in the city, and it was a source of comfort as I got to know him. He'd grown up in Southern California, like I did, and was only a couple of years older than me. We bonded over Filipino foods—he was born to a Filipino family and I'd grown up in one of the country's largest Filipino neighborhoods—and I explained that one of my exes, who was Filipino Hawaiian, had introduced me to chicharon bulaklak, a dish over which I obsessed.

I think my second order was the Milestones, a cocktail inspired by milk tea and incorporating both pandan and grapefruit, but it didn't matter. By my second drink, I was utterly smitten. He worked for the world's foremost fashion authority, was incredibly attractive, and carried himself with a detachment that was almost disdainfully cool, traits that had the combined effect of making him seem mysterious. I wanted to know more; I wanted him.

Two drinks each were enough, and we were restless. The night was still young, so I suggested that we head to my actual favorite bar in the world, another speakeasy. Located on the Lower East Side, it had the additional benefit of being closer to my apartment, though I didn't yet mention it because I didn't want to seem presumptuous.

When we arrived, we were sat in their outdoor dining shed. Between sips, I (rudely) eavesdropped on the two Chinese girls sitting at the table next to ours and translated for him their chatter. Somewhat bemused, Raul watched as I, empowered by alcohol, turned to my left and struck up a conversation with them. They were international students at one of the city’s many colleges whose parents had instructed them to remain in the United States, wanting them to avoid having to deal with China’s strict coronavirus lockdown policies. We still follow each other on Instagram to this day.

After we paid our bill, I asked him if he wanted to come back with me to my place. To my relief, he accepted. We walked through lower Manhattan together, and I held his hand. New York, seen at night through slightly drunk eyes next to a prospective suitor, embodies the romanticism of every stereotypical rom-com set in the city, and adrenaline rushed through me. I'd like to think that he felt the same: we stopped to make out next to Park Row, his arms around me and me lifting him up from below his waist. There's no better word for it—I was totally intoxicated.

By the time we reached my apartment, my heartbeat hammered away. I quickly rinsed off and padded out, toweled, to a true vision befitting a Hollywood film: Raul was out on my balcony, vaping, his silhouette framed by the Brooklyn Bridge far behind him. I went out to be with him, kissed him, and carried him back inside onto my bed.

The next morning, we went around the corner for breakfast at an Australian hole-in-the-wall, where we added each other on Co-Star and consulted the charts for our astrological compatibility. (Co-Star described our charts as being at minimum moderately compatible in every sign, house, whatever—I'm no astrology expert, but I'd never seen such compatibility between myself and anyone else.) Too soon, he had to head home, and I wondered as we separated whether I'd ever see him again.

I got my chance just one week later.