By Jennifer Wang

Love is nothing to be running away from.


INFATUATION

The first time we meet, I’m crouched awkwardly on the floor of a friend’s dorm, a cup of something mixed in my hand. My knees creak under my own weight, and there’s a dull soreness in my bones. Still, my head buzzes with anticipation for the night ahead.

That’s when you walk in, all smiles and waves to a room full of strangers, before your eyes land on me. I smile back and give you my name like it’s an offering; you give me yours in return. Even though we’ve just met, you don’t feel like a stranger.

Before the night ends, you bombard me with question after question on our walk home. You want to know everything there is to know about me — where I’m from, what my hobbies are, where I like to study — I answer every curiosity, still giddy from drinks that have yet to wear off.

We part ways with each other’s numbers in our phones and a silent promise to see each other in the future.

The familiarity of this routine isn’t lost on me. I go to parties, get lost from my friends, and meet strangers who put their socials into my phone. That’s what weekends are for.

When I was 17, I had this terrifying fear that I’d be alone for the rest of my life. I felt like I wasted all my high school years chasing after love that only knew how to flee from me. At 18, college was a new playing field, filled with new personalities to explore — but the rules of the game didn’t change. Every genuine connection I made would eventually fizzle out to nothing but numbers I no longer keep on my phone.

I thought the ghost of loneliness would haunt me forever.

You, however, were persistent enough to exorcise it.

TEMPTATION

I’m late.

Those are the only words echoing through my head as I race down Nueces St., eyes peeled for your balcony window. The January cold nips relentlessly at my exposed torso, the cropped jacket I stole from my roommate doing little to help.

I stop by a window that’s louder than the others. Just as I pull out my phone to text you, the balcony door slides open with a piercing screech.

My friend Sara squeezes through the crack and beckons at me to come inside. I toss my purse up at her with a grin, scaling the brick and swinging my legs over the railing like I’m committing a heist.

Inside your apartment, the warmth tames my frozen skin. I make my way around greeting everyone before my gaze lands on you, flushed cheeks and messy hair in all your glory.

I know right then I’m in trouble.

When I was 14, my mother hired a Chinese fortune teller to read my fate. He told her that the stars weren’t aligned in my favor when it came to love. The heavens made it clear — I was destined to become a divorcee.

My mother didn’t really believe in ancient superstitions, but she warned me that some of the teller’s predictions had come true in the past. His words stuck around just enough to turn me into a skeptic by the time I had graduated high school.

Perhaps I’m still a skeptic, but the sight of you then was enough to make me doubt everything I thought I believed about love.

STUPOR

Under my command, you press cold glass against my glossed up lips, and I relish in the burn each time liquid fire scrapes down my throat. The sickly sweetness always gives away to this horrible, chemical taste that lingers on my tongue before it’s washed out by another round. Again and again, I surrender myself to the mercy of the red Solo cup.

It takes a couple more for me to hear it — the sound of my own blood, a hum rising in a crescendo, like a choice symphony in my ears. Your hand lands on my shoulder, and your voice cuts through it all with four words, strung together in a low murmur.

Are you feeling okay?

I nod, but my body betrays me. I’m heaving, struggling to breathe as the world around me grows blurrier by the second. Suddenly, the carpet on your bedroom floor looks like the perfect place for a nap.

Don’t get on the floor. It's cold. Come on, up — get on the bed instead.

You crouch to resurrect me from the human puddle I had become, scooping me up like I weigh nothing. You tuck me in with a blanket decorated with the logo of your favorite football team and offer me your poor Squishmallow as a sacrifice to become my pillow.

My skin feels like it’s burning off my bones, yet I feel colder than ever. I can’t stop shivering, no matter how many deep breaths I take or how hard I pinch myself. At the sight of my restlessness, your hands find their way to mine, burning the invisible frost away. I squeeze your fingers, my lifeline, the only thing grounding me to your mattress. Selfishly, I wanted them to stay tied with mine forever.

In a world where every act of service for a woman is expected to be repaid, I didn’t understand why you were being so kind to me.

Why? I whisper a question that feels forbidden. Why are you doing this?

Because I’m the host, you pause, deliberating your next words carefully. But also because I want to take care of you.

AVOIDANCE

Now you’re pressing glass against my lips again, the gloss long stripped from my cupid’s bow and water instead of liquid hell. Each sip you coax down my throat quiets the pounding in my head a little.

I watch you over the rim of the cup. I watch the way you part your lips slightly in guidance for me to imitate and how you make sure the blanket is always above my shoulders when I lie back down.

Still, I can’t bring myself to relax around you.

I used to look for love everywhere: inside high school lockers, in between lines of texts, in all the wrong people. There was always something about me that wasn’t satisfactory; compared to the next girl in line, I just didn’t match up.

Who’s to say you won’t think the same?

There on your bed, I keep wondering why you’re drawn to me.

What’s your type? I ask, curious for the answer. I prepare myself for a physical description of something that vaguely matches my profile.

You take your sweet time with the answer. While I wait, I try to read your eyes through your eyelashes. Finally, you part your lips with the answer.

Someone who’s easy to love.

SABOTAGE

Easy to love, I repeat in my head. I wonder if that has ever been me.

At that moment, I can’t tell who’s feeling more delicate — you, with your heart bleeding through your sleeve, or me, with confusion addling my brain.

I become hyper-aware of our hands, still tangled together on the bedside. I try to avoid your gaze, try to close my eyes and pretend I can't feel your skin on mine. I try to ignore the warmth that you radiate even from a distance, a warmth that calls out to me to inch closer. I try to disregard how I can feel each pulse from your heart dance its way through your veins and to my fingertips.

I swallow the monster of sticky shame that was growing inside me.

You like me, but I’m not even sure if I like you.

You sigh through your nose, and look at me softly in defeat.

I know. That’s okay.

Your unwavering calmness enrages me. I wanted you to be upset, to curse and scream at me, to call me a fraud for the way I’ve scammed your affections. But you don’t. Instead, you just continue to feed me water and whisper assurances into my ear.

Two weeks later, with the haze gone from my mind, I decide to give you a reason to hate me. I tell myself it’s only fair to you that I cease this game I’ve dragged you into.

It happens a week before Valentine’s day. I sit outside the Blanton Museum to dial your number and sever the budding connection we have.

I’m too used to the loss of a good thing. So like all other good things that have come to me in my past, I let you go.

ARDOR

I eventually found my way back to you. Deep down, it felt inevitable we would reappear in each other’s lives. I was right.

I’m still surprised by all this — cooking dinners for each other, stroking your hair after a bad day, waking up to your sleeping figure — the simple ease of loving you, and being loved.

From time to time, I still remember the words of that fortune teller. Sometimes the doubts creep in, and I wonder if his words will stand true.

But I refuse to believe there is a prophecy for love.

Tonight, I will fall asleep to the sound of your breathing, just as I do every other night.

After all, love is nothing to be running away from. ■