This is Us
This is you. 22 years old and a recent graduate of Arizona State. You love marching band and Dungeons and Dragons. You love your fraternity and drinking until 2 in the morning. You love Thai food and Dr. Who. You love me.
This is me. 26 years old and a recent hire at a school in Texas. I love theatre and RuPaul’s Drag Race. I love my speech family and drinking until 2 in the morning. I love Thai food and watching Dr. Who in bed with you. I love you.
This is you, sitting in your dark, sound-proof room. When all of the lights are off and your door is closed, constellations breathe down on you from your ceiling. Even at 22, the charm of glow-in-the-dark stars does not escape you.
This is me, sitting in my small room. At night, when all the lights are off, slivers of silver and blue light cut slits on my wall. I am 26 and have no talent or interest in decorating a room in a place I don’t feel is home. This is me missing the stars in your room.
This is us deciding to open the relationship.
This is you sleeping with one of your exes.
This is me sleeping with one of my exes.
This is us pretending it isn’t awkward. This is is also us being turned on by it. This is also us pretending it isn’t awkward that we’re turned on by it.
This is me, kissing nameless men at a bar, then sending you text messages to tell you I miss you.
This is you, leaving a stranger’s home, sending me a text message to tell me you love me.
This is me laughing at your usual usual reviews of hook-ups. “It was okay,” you’ll say. “It was great,” you’ll say. “It lasted 1 minute, then I stopped and left. Sometimes white guys taste weird to me,” you’ll say.
This is you laughing at my usual reviews of hook-ups. “No, It was weird,” I’ll say. “It was great,” I’ll say. “I freaked out because he had all these syringes and I was like ‘Are you a heroin addict?’ because I’m dumb and rude and he was like ‘I’m diabetic,’ and I felt like an idiot,” I’ll say.
This is me frustrated by the fact that I hear your voice every two weeks, if I’m lucky. In the months we’ve been together, I wish you’d saved, even just a little bit, a few dollars each week, because maybe you’d have visited by now.
This is you frustrated by the fact that I don’t have to money to travel to see you right now. In the months we’ve been together, I’ve only been able to see you once a month, if we’re lucky. The end of the school year is tough for both of us.
According to Google maps, there are 996 miles between your front door and mine. If you were to drive in current traffic from your doorstep to mine, it would take approximately 14 hours and 36 minutes. Most flights usually get me there in roughly 2 hours and 30 minutes. I have spent a significant amount of our relationship on buses, airplanes, and cabs trying to get to you.
This is you, missing me.
This is me, missing you.