I don’t like to talk about

him.

It is December, the last

month of my first semester

of college. When people ask

about him, I say he’s doing

well. If they want to know

what happened, I say that his

life ran out of time for mine

(bullshit). When they ask if

I miss him, I say yes, very

much. My cheeks pull my lips

into a smile, closed-mouthed,

and I duck away, in search of a

solitude seldom found in Ann

Arbor.

The flashbacks return as

soon as I find that space. I

feel the warmth of our first

few weeks spread through

me, the revelation that comes

with finding someone who

understands
everything

about you. It is my last night at

home. I’m kissing him on his

porch, and I don’t stop until

two in the morning because I

know it will be the last time.

I feel my eyes burn as my

mom moves me into my dorm

the next day. I dry-heave

on my bed just as I did that

afternoon, re-experiencing a

torment too severe for such

a privileged young girl. I

am crying now. I go back to

September, when he tells me

he’s addicted to a very cruel

drug. It is over, but I am

crying, encaged in glass.

My
phone
buzzes.
He’s

texted me again, asking about

school. My heart sinks and

jumps. I say hello, that it’s

nice to hear from him. I tell

him classes are great (ha!),

that I’m making friends (not

a complete farce) and that

I’m getting over everything

that happened in the summer

(complete farce).

The glass breaks and the

flashbacks
bleed
to
the

present in incoherent waves.

I peck at my screen: Nothing

is great. I miss your eyes. I

want to know how your kitten

is doing. Remember when you

flew to New York just for me?

When I left for school,

every conversation became

an argument. I was walking

through
life
in
a
sickly

state of anger. To him, I

was irrational, my opinion

invalid. I didn’t understand,

he assured me, I’d never

experienced true hardship.

He talked down to me. My

best friend was turning me

into a lunatic — and a recluse,

too invested in one person to

reach out to any of the 40,000

around me.

But then it came. I think

we should stop doing this,

his text read. It was my first

weekend back home.

I don’t write well enough to

explain that pain. It’s a burst

of tears each time he posts

on Instagram; a borrowed

shirt I never returned. It’s

going through photos I took

when
he
wasn’t
looking,

just to twist the knife. It’s a

pair of eyes that I can’t stop

imagining, knowing they will

never look at me the same.

I hear his name and I want

to hide. On that first day in

Ann Arbor, I examined every

bump and crack of my dorm’s

white ceiling in my fit of panic

— I can’t even look at it now.

Right now, I’m breathing fast.

I made my friend stay in the

room with me to write this.

Memories of him no longer

seep into my everyday life,

though I miss what we had

every once in a while. I feel

like I’m finally living again,

catching up on a semester’s

worth of risk-taking, friend-

making and happiness. At

least I finally made it.

I still don’t like to talk

about him. But now, it’s not

such a point of weakness.

I just have more important

things to say.

2B

Managaing Editor:

Lara Moehlman

Deputy Editors:

Matt Gallatin

Brian Kuang

Design Editor:

Katie Spak

Photo Editor:

Claire Abdo

Editor in Chief:

Emma Kinery

Managing Editor:

Rebecca Lerner

Copy Editors:

Danielle Jackson

Taylor Grandinetti

THE STATEMENT: GENDER EDITION

Wednesay, Janurary 18th, 2017 // The Statement

In Excess: The Boy on Outer Drive

B Y T E S S G A R C I A , DA I LY A R T S W R I T E R

ILLUSTRATION BY CLAIRE ABDO

Gender — and relationships between them — is front and center in this week’s Statement edition. Daily
Arts Writer Maria Robins-Somerville digs into the experience of being transgender on campus, while

Lauren Theisen takes a personal approach, debating the weight and the power in a name as a transgender
woman. In the Column Corner, Tess Garcia ruminates on a broken relationship, and Jackie Charniga walks

into Circus bar for the last time.