Two.

In which I touch some grass and grass touches me.

About a month after my most devastating breakup ever, I went on a date. I knew that I wasn’t ready to start a new relationship, but I needed to get myself out of my apartment because all I did was obsess over my breakup and cry. (I’d never before cried so much, so constantly.) Moreover, I thought it might have been karmic irony that the man I was about to meet had familial roots in Singapore, just as my most consequential ex-boyfriend did. So, forcing myself to put on a brave face and with every intention of seeming like a totally normal person who wasn’t constantly on the precipice of having a nervous breakdown, I met Nate at Pier 25 of Hudson River Park.

I confess that I had an ulterior motive for suggesting Pier 25 as our meeting spot. Until then, I had been there only once or twice, and I held a rather negative opinion of it because it was where my ex-boyfriend and I had our first major argument. Thus, as I was attempting to move on with my life, I thought it would be nice to try and make some new memories. Besides, I don’t like to put much pressure on first dates—to me, they’re simply vehicles for meeting people and sussing out whether we even get along at the most fundamental levels—and I harbored no delusions that either he or I would immediately fall for one another.

My first date with Nate was fine. I asked him lots of questions to both get to know him and to distract myself from having to think or talk about my own life, and he obliged me with detailed answers. We originally sat on a bench adjacent to the bike lanes; as our conversation progressed, we strolled around the pier. He seemed like a nice guy, and he had moved to New York from San Francisco with his then-boyfriend, but they later broke up. In between walks, I led him to sit and converse with me on a large wooden swinging bench facing the Hudson River, not coincidentally the same bench that had been the catalyst for that first argument with my ex-boyfriend. Towards the end of our date, we ran across lower Manhattan to his favorite hole-in-the-wall shop in Chinatown for potstickers, where he told me about how he often played volleyball with a city league. Although tryouts had already taken place, he invited me to play with more casual players on Saturdays in Prospect Park. Being that I was desperate to occupy my time and keep myself busy, I accepted.

Although it isn’t as renowned as Central Park, Prospect Park has always been more special to me because it feels like a space for locals. On summer weekends, a farmers market can sometimes be found at the park’s entrance near Grand Army Plaza, and, on the next weekend after that first date, I stopped there for a coffee before making my way towards where Nate had instructed me to find the volleyball courts deep within the park.

Upon arrival, the volleyball courts turned out to be rudimentary nets set up atop plain grass. Nate was already there with a friend (who later explained to me that they compete in volleyball tournaments together), and he introduced me to the twentyish strangers already in attendance. I greeted everyone and chipped in the recommended three dollars for the labor that went into setting up. Then, we separated into beginner and advanced skill groups, formed some teams, and began to play.

Right off the bat, I wasn’t very good; though I was already familiar with the basic rules, I hadn’t played volleyball in years. I hesitated too often, not used to throwing myself at the ball to save it at all costs, and I didn’t love the idea of scraping my limbs on dirt for the game. After a few sets, my uncertainties gave way to my latent competitiveness, and the desire to win took over. I still wasn’t very good, but I grew increasingly determined to, at the very least, not be the reason for any losses. I exerted myself more and more: I dove at balls, shouted in coordination with my team, and lost myself in the sport. For a couple of hours, I reverted back to the confident athlete I had been as a pre-teen, unburdened of my anxiety.

As we played, I became more acquainted with the other players. A couple of them were, like me, also born in April. Some worked in finance; others were artists. Ada and Dua introduced themselves to me as roommates, and we discovered that we once lived in the same neighborhood. I asked Dua if her name was as in making dua for someone, in response to which she laughed and jokingly asked if I was Muslim because of my familiarity with the terminology.

After the final few sets, sweaty and exhausted, I laid on the ground, spreadeagle, allowing—willing—myself to fully succumb to the earth. It’s not something I’m typically fond of doing because I hate soiling my clothes, but I granted myself this simple human pleasure—touching grass—because I wanted so desperately to leave my mind. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on my senses, as my therapist had suggested I do whenever anxiety threatens to overwhelm me. I tried to distinguish the sounds picked up by my ears: the chatter of my fellow players, the fragments of conversations drifting over from nearby parkgoers, the wind rustling park vegetation. I mentally reached from my mind through my limbs, feeling my weight pressing into the ground and the dirt pressing into me in return, feeling the fabric of my clothing clinging to my skin.

I opened my eyes, somewhat blinded by the sunlight filtering through the tree leaves, as Nate came over to me. He wasn’t as tired as I was, since it’s a sport he regularly plays, but I was totally hammered, not least because I hadn’t been properly eating for weeks. He nudged me, sat next to me to make small talk, and pulled clumps of grass to playfully sprinkle onto me.

I tried to savor that moment. The sun hadn’t yet begun to set and still felt warm against my skin, and within me I felt that spark of budding friendships, seeds planted deep within the center of my chest. I resolved to nurture them, to see them to fruition. I was still freshly heartbroken, but the world spoke to me then, lovingly patient: “I’ll be here for you when you’re ready.” How could I be sad when so much good abounded? My sadness didn’t dissipate, but I felt the tiniest bit of hope that it eventually would.

For the next couple of weeks, I continued to return to Prospect Park for an afternoon of volleyball with strangers. I even bought knee pads to protect myself. I looked forward to the exertion of my physical being to give my body something to do other than rotting in bed, to the possibility that I might again see the friends I made in weeks prior—or that I might make new friends altogether—including Nate. The hopeless romantic within me could see a future where he and I looked back at volleyball as being the activity that brought us together; the realist within me knew that this was a future that would never come to pass, simply because I wasn’t really into him and because I knew he—despite the kissy and heart emojis that he’d texted me once or twice—wasn’t really into me.

Nate did return. I saw him somewhat frequently and engaged with him infrequently, since our different skill levels resulted in us almost never being matched against or with one another. Between games, he and I made small talk, if at all. We didn’t avoid each other—in fact, he was perfectly friendly to me, without artifice, each time we did speak—there just simply weren’t many opportunities for us to interact.

I never saw Ada or Dua again. Finally, I too stopped going—I didn’t much enjoy how competitive some of the other players were nor how upset I became in response. Still, the nice people that I did meet served as a proof of concept to me that nice people were still out there for me to find, and this was a substantial foundation upon which I could build hope, if I could only muster the brain chemicals to get into the right headspace to go out and socialize. It was summer in New York, after all, and I really needed to get on with living out the rest of my life.

I now think of Pier 25 as being the location of that giant wooden swinging bench, on which I once argued with the only man I ever wanted to marry and where I tried to move on to a life without him by dating another. I haven’t returned to it since.