To all the boys I didn’t love before…

I’ve kissed boys in bars, in the backs of Ubers, outside the entrances to trains, in kitchens, in cars, by cars, on stages, in sweaty clubs, and in parks with a cool breeze weaving between us - to name a few. I’ve even liked some of the boys I’ve kissed. But the list grows shorter when you narrow it down to boys I’ve kissed that I’ve liked, and then it grows shorter still when you narrow it down even further to boys I’ve loved (but more on that later).

However, this isn’t about the boys I’ve loved.

Let’s go back to the gray space between the boys I’ve liked and the boys I’ve loved. In between the two is a list of boy’s I didn’t love but definitely liked. Some of them I’ve come close to loving. Some of them I’ve liked but didn’t love. Some of them flirted with the edges of like, never even moving past that. But all of them had the delicious, tantalizing potential of more, that elusive concept, that fickle mistress of want.

I find that, in some ways, it’s easier to get over pure, solid, heartbreak. Not in the physical sense, no; heartbreak after true love is fucking brutal. It hurts you physically, emotionally, spiritually; it hurts and hurts and takes and takes until the ache lessens and you can breathe again. But at least there’s a sort of playbook to follow. At least you know what to do in heartbreak; you cry, you drink, you talk to your friends, you cry on the subway, you get really angry, you go out too much, you stay in too much. Friends will rally, people understand - there’s playlists devoted to heartbreak. Better yet, there’s an actual, tangible, real relationship to mourn.

It’s the ones that never happened, that tricky little gray space, that are worse to get over.

For the rich musical tapestry that we have for heartbreak, songwriters haven’t seemed to encompass that “we tried and it didn’t work out” gray area (also, I’m working on fixing that, but more on that later). Your friends can’t exactly rally when there wasn’t a relationship to mourn and a person they barely knew to scorn - though they’ll try, bless them. You’re stuck between obsessing and mourning what did happen and then grieving over all that could have happened. Somehow, the “could have” hurts worse.

In better moments, you’ll play “the 1” by Taylor Swift and think of them. In worse moments, you’ll play “wish you were gay” by Billie Eilish and think of them. In moments worser still, you’ll play “good 4 u” by Olivia Rodrigo on repeat. And at the absolute worst, you’ll play nothing at all. Instead, your mind will replay the cadence of a laugh you didn’t get to hear nearly enough, over and over again.

A crush. Infatuation. Obsession. Like. Call it what you want.

They’re difficult to get over. Years later, they can be difficult to get over. The what-ifs, the potential, the inevitability, the want, the sheer lack of closure; they’re all confounding and eternal, even after you’ve made peace with them.

One of the few - and probably the best - lessons from “How I Met Your Mother” is this; you only need two things for love - timing and chemistry. Chemistry is the easy part. Chemistry is the mutual flicker of want in your eyes. You know what’s hard? Timing. Timing is a bitch.

And it doesn’t have to be just that someone is late or something. No, timing can mean a number of things. Maybe you’re ready for something more and they’re not. You could have met two years later and things could’ve worked out. There’s a million things that need to happen in order for two people (or more if that’s how you rock) to have their shit together and their wits about them in order to commit to each other and the potential of love. But, ya know, timing is a bitch.

Time can pass, years, weeks, days, and you can still be tripped up by the chords to a song you associate with them, or the way someone phrases something just like they did, or meeting someone else from their hometown. These half-baked situationships are the absolute worst to get over.

Well, here’s my attempt to give myself some closure.

In the interest of maintaining the anonymity of some of these boys I liked (since, well, some of them still follow me on social media and I post about this newsletter on social media, and I’m not deluding myself that they read this, but it’s a real possibility), I’ll say this; the letters/remembrances are not in chronological order. They happened when they happened. I won’t be mentioning anything too revealing, just a (likely) romanticized, nostalgic look at what happened. The only people who’d know who these boys are, well, the boys themselves, and my best friends, who have had the job of helping me through all of these situationships for all these years. And boys, if you’re reading this and mad that my friends know about you, well, tough. Consider it karma.

Boy A

When I first met you, it was your lips that did me in.

Your eyes met mine in a steely flash, brow furrowing as you did your best to stay cool. But your lips, pursed every so mildly in frustration, selling out the irritation behind your calm exterior - they got me. I wanted to pick you apart, bit by bit, nerve by nerve. I wanted to sit inside the gears that turned in your head, a thousand thoughts behind every word you’d offer someone.

I tried to convince myself it wasn’t real - I could move past it. It was careless, this was stupid, it could get messy. I teetered on the precipice for so long, wondering if I could inch forward or inch back before I was too far gone to be caught. And then, you shucked your shirt off in my hallway, those same lips pursed in laughter, and I knew then I couldn’t keep going.

Because I wouldn’t come back.

And then… we danced.

A delicate tango, woven through years of mutual yearning and the complete lack of courage to say what we actually felt.

You’d clutch a cold glass at the bar, the ice clinking as you drank, and I’d think about your lips on the rim and your eyes on mine for weeks. You’d smile a certain way at me, special and crinkled just-so, and my journal would have to hear about it that night. Your jokes and quips, always delivered with a heated look in your eyes, taking me out at the knees, catching me off guard so that I’d have to work twice as hard to remain just as funny as my friends believed me to be. Meals in candlelight, just each other’s company, and you’d surprise me by remembering something I’d said years ago. Did you memorize the way I laughed, too? Did the ghost of my lips remain on your cheek after we said goodbye? Did my dark eyes follow you all the way home?

In the end, the back and forth make for good stories and better company now. In the end, the inch of vulnerability I put out there was met by the noncommittal, and I couldn’t keep validating going back for more - not to my friends, who wanted better for me, and certainly not to myself.

I’m sure there’s blame to be shared between us, but what’s done is done. In the end, I couldn’t pick apart the wiring in your mind, the walls you put up, the dreams you let die.

In the end, did it matter at all?

Boy B

Oh, you’re special, aren’t you?

You’re absolutely unlike anyone else I’ve liked before, and I tried to fight it, but stronger people than me have given in - so what chance did I stand? The sharp lines of your face juxtaposed with your boyish charm and the roguish gleam in your eye, all swirling together into an intoxicating, heady combination, especially when they were aimed at me. I really, truly, didn’t stand a chance. God above, who could?

Oh, but it started the same way. I caught one look at your face, the way you held yourself, the way your limbs dripped languorously and languidly one moment before snapping to attention moments later, heaps of energy, of perpetual motion, stitched into your sinews, your nerves. I caught one look, took it all in, and I knew. I thought to myself - don’t start anything - but when do I ever listen?

And at first, it was fun. It was harmless fun - I’m a shameless flirt, I’ve said it myself. But when you locked your eyes on me, it was over. Those quiet, intense, focused eyes; clear and blue in lighter moments but flecked with gray in the quiet moments, blown wide open with want. Your lips on mine, your hand cradling my jaw, holding me in place. Long conversations in cars when we had places to be. Your voice lowered to a dangerous timbre, making promises I knew you couldn’t keep.

Heated looks exchanged across crowded rooms rarely make it out alive, do they?

Maybe it’s over, maybe it’s not, but every ounce of logic in my mind is screaming to end it. I need to plan, I like to have set times and dates and things, I like things ordered, I have to prepare - I have to plan.

And you?

You are all too good at grabbing greedy and luscious pulls of my skin, and all too terrible at communicating. I’m left trying to grab handfuls of you.

Boy C

For someone that claimed they wanted a relationship, I’ve never seen someone act in a way that was so fundamentally opposite to that. Funnily enough, it was all absolutely handed to you - but, then again, I suppose everything else already was in your life, so why would this be any different?

Every good love story needs a meet-cute, and ours was perfect.

It seemed everyone in that apartment building in the East Village was throwing a Halloween party, and my friends dragged me to the one on the penthouse floor, after our hosts insisted that we come with them - since they were invited - and swipe some alcohol for our own party downstairs. In the push of the crowd, of course, I lost my friends, and was left clutching a beer in the kitchen, glued to my phone.

I looked up and there you were.

You were across the room, but we had an entire conversation anyways.

I like your eye black, you mouthed.

Thanks, I said. I like yours.

What are you supposed to be? (he was a referee)

What are you supposed to be? (I was a Quidditch player)

An impasse - we’d need to be a lot closer to hear one another.

Want a beer? You gestured to the (ridiculously large) outdoor patio behind you. I followed.

(Of course, I’d known I’d follow you anywhere the moment we locked eyes, but that was neither here nor there.)

What followed was a long night of flirting, of talking about our families, our pinkies brushing, the jokes you whispered to me as your friends were idiots, us running into each other on St. Marks, even after we’d parted ways. The inevitability, the crackling tension, the want followed us across continents, across oceans, from India, to (redacted European country). Oh, it followed us over thousands of miles. Where it struggled was mere city blocks, one fateful evening.

In the end, I suppose I have to thank you. Because when All Too Well (10 Minute Version) came out, I hadn’t exactly thought I’d be able to relate to it. But then she sang about willing an older boy to come to her 21st birthday, after he promised, and didn’t show, and… Well, I could relate to that all too well.

If I could leave you all with one thing, friends, it’s this;

Love is probably the best thing we do. And yet, far too often, we muddle it up with our own confusion, apprehension, second-guessing, and lack of communication. I know I do. So let’s promise ourselves this, yes?

No more writing letters to the people we didn’t love. Let’s full-send our feelings (that’s a callback!). Let’s wear our hearts on our sleeves. Let’s say what we want, to who we want, and at least fucking try for what we want.

Here’s to these being the last letters I write to boys who didn’t let me love them, and who I didn’t let love me.

With love, always,

Anjor