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. 

