Article for News-Letter Love & Sex Magazine

Lily Kairis

IDEA/SUMMARY:
My first love hashtag-changed-my-life, and I never understood why it ended. How can two
people who are so compatible NOT be together? Where did I go wrong?! What could be
possibly be thinking?! I asked myself these questions for months before I realized I had to
answer them myself. An article that honestly explores how painful it feels to cut off contact with
someone who once meant the world to you; how challenging yet eye-opening it is to re-learn
being single. Ultimately, this relationship taught me that though some people leave without
explanation, you don't have to let them dictate your story. You can write the ending yourself.

Before I ever experienced romantic love, I spent years theorizing how it

might feel. The obsession began before I even had words to express it. When I
was only four months old, I crawled over to the window display in my
grandparents’ Pennsylvania barn, traced my baby fingers over my parents’
wedding portrait, and eventually, shoved it in my mouth. My mother had to
forcibly remove me from the living room. Evidently, Little Lily already felt the
allure of love. 

In the years of adolescence that followed, I found inspiration everywhere.
From early 2000’s Taylor Swift ballads to my grandparents’ slow-dance at their
50th wedding anniversary: the world around me was teeming with romance. I
could not browse the Scholastic book fair without being bombarded by fictional
flirtations. Beyond that, when I turned thirteen, the interrogations began. At family
reunions, elderly men I barely knew would pinch my cheeks and inquire: “So, any
dates? A beautiful girl like you, I’m surprised you’re not already married.” Please
keep in mind, I was thirteen years old.
Yet, despite the strangeness of these anecdotes, my experience is actually
quite universal. Young women are bred to think of romantic love as the end-all-
be-all. Marriage is a goal to aspire towards, and single status is an aberration.
This is something I see even more prevalently now, as a senior in college.
As myself and my peers age, we feel increasing pressure to “find someone.”
Romantic relationships and sexual intimacy suddenly become high-priority items
on the to-do list of life. Women compare themselves to their coupled-off friends,
panicking if they feel “less experienced.” It is a common anxiety: “If I’m single,
what does that mean about me? Am I not pretty enough, not suggestive enough,
not cool enough, not approachable enough? What’s wrong with me?” It is a
downward spiral of self-deprecation; one that even I, around sophomore year of
college, found myself falling into.
But none of my anxieties, nor my romantic musings, could prepare me for
the eventual realities of love.
It happened in the fall of 2016, under circumstances as cliche as they can
possibly be. I was studying abroad in Prague, and we were both students in film
production. He sought me out immediately. I’m not sure why I caught his attention
(Was it the bangs? The stretching in public?), but only a day after we met, this
scruffy boy was already making concentrated effort to stand next to me on our
tram ride to class. Every morning for two weeks, he would elbow his way through
our classmates, place his hand next to mine on the railing, and proceed to
interrogate me: “What’s your favorite movie? The best meal you’ve ever had?
Your favorite lyrics from a song?” My roommates called him “my adopted
Labrador,” mocking how he would audibly pant every time I smiled.
Ordinarily, this would have irked me. Despite my romantic leanings, I had
built up a startlingly low tolerance for men who gave me unsolicited attention. Yet
I found him oddly charming. I also figured, at some point, he would grow tired of
my boring answers to his questions, realize I was not the Manic-Pixie-Dream-Girl
he envisioned, and move on.
But that didn’t happen. Surprisingly enough, a week after meeting, he
asked me on a date. Even more surprisingly, I said yes. Then it all happened —
as the cliche story goes — so fast.
He asked me on seven dates in a row: glow-in-the-dark mini golf,
waterfront dining, paddle boating, a walk through the rose garden, etc. This boy
was as Hollywood-romantic as they can get, and my sentimental spirit was
helpless to his charms. He asked me to be his girlfriend after knowing me for
three weeks, and I said yes. Suddenly, I found myself embodying the fictional
couples I had long observed. We made each other playlists, we bought each
other flowers, and we texted each other mushy compliments every second we
were apart. It was, by some definitions, “disgusting,” but in the thick of this
romance, I felt more special and validated than I ever had.
As in the case of many abroad romances, however, this one did not stand
the test of time.
Eventually, it was “long-distance” (Washington DC verses Baltimore, so
really, not that long) that tore us apart. He was an extreme workaholic, and once
we returned to the USA, he struggled to prioritize an emotional connection with
me over his devotion to career success. We broke up in February, after a tearful
phone call in which he proclaimed that he wished he could be “good enough for
me.” At the time, this felt oddly inconclusive. I could not accept this as the end.
For the next seven months, we stayed in contact, and in retrospect, it was
incredibly unhealthy. I realize now, looking back: I clung to this relationship
because I believed it was the best thing that ever happened to me. This boy gave
me my first taste of romantic love, and despite how obsessively I had studied the
psychological and philosophical theories (Ted Talks with Helen Fisher, lectures by
Socrates, poems by E.E. Cummings, lyrics by Frank Sinatra), no science or art
can fully encapsulate the feeling of loving reciprocally. It was a comfort and an
addiction that I could not let go.
To my defense, neither could he. It took nearly a year of toxic
“friendship” (i.e.: booty calls and empty promises) for me to realize that I needed
to move on. Mutually, we agreed to stop talking. And that was the wisest decision
I ever made.
In the months since, I have filled in the spaces of romantic longing with
deep appreciation for myself. I realized that I cherished this relationship not so
much who he was, but even more so, for who I was with him. A week after we
stopped talking, I confided in my mother: “I just miss having someone to fret over.
To send cheesy words of affirmation, to share my favorite songs with, to tell about
my day. I miss having a favorite person.”
My mom replied: “What if your favorite person is yourself?”
I know it sounds ridiculously narcissistic, but in time, this has become the
truth.
Since my break-up, I have found so much fulfillment from friendships.
There are dozens of people who fill my life with joy and support, and these are
now the people I text with emoji-laden compliments and updates about my day. I
have learned: the comfort of loving does not always have to be romantic.
However, at the end of the day, I believe the strongest bond you will ever
experience is the bond you create with yourself.
Before my break-up, I did not quite understand this. I did not see the allure
of “me time,” but nowadays, I cherish it. I write myself encouraging post-its; I buy
myself chocolate; and I make myself playlists. Like any serious relationship, this
self-love is a bond I have put time and effort towards maintaining. But I am proud
to say we are still going strong. After a long week, I find no greater pleasure than
retreating into my bedroom, playing my favorite smooth jazz, pulling out a journal,
and relishing in the splendor of my own imagination.