What is my major?

“What’s your major again?”

Yours is aerospace engineering and you want to work for NASA in Huntsville. But you couldn’t remember mine, nor could you even recollect want I wanted to do in the future. This question, so casual in nature, and yet, this truly signified the end. Or at least, this was the end for me.

You couldn’t even remember my major. You probably couldn’t remember my middle name, where I’m from, what noises bother me. You likely can’t remember my favorite color or my favorite movie, nor could you remember my favorite band.

And yet, I had been so infatuated with you; or rather, the idea of you. I thought that you were who I wanted to travel with, to see concerts with, and to ultimately spend my life with. I thought I could picture our time together, seeing it lay out like a time line right before my eyes. But this was not our time line, and you were not who I thought you were.

In my mind, you were this goofy, smart guy who always went out of his way to say hello and talk to me. You were the guy who kept up with my life and seemed to really want to be a part of it. You matched my wit and we shared similar loves for obscure indie-alt bands. We agreed on the benefits of being an only kid, and we laughed at the same raunchy jokes. I was so obsessed with the idea of you that it was hard for me to picture my life without you in it.

But here we are. Your number is no longer in my phone. I no longer send you music suggestions and I no longer eagerly wait for you to acknowledge my presence. You have a new girlfriend, and I have focused my attention on other things. We have both moved on. But there was still that small part of me that clung to you and the idea that you would one day send me that text or call or show up at my door and tell me you felt the same way I did.

I suppose I needed to fully realize how little you understood and cared for me in order to process that there was a life beyond you. Asking me about my major, something I know we have each talked about a countless number of times, was the wake-up call I needed. So thank you for that, truly.

Maybe this ending will ultimately bring about the new beginning I’ve been desperately hoping for. Here’s to wishful thinking.


Same page

We just aren’t on the same page anymore, and I know I am partly responsible for that. But so are you. I have apologized for my role in everything, and I thought we had agreed to move on. Or at least, I had.

And I have been holding up my end of that. I have stopped looking at you as anything more than a friend, and I am moving on. I have asked someone else to formal and to our date function. I have stopped feeling the way I did about you, truly. I have consoled my friend who you decided you had feelings for, assuring her that I am 110% moved on and fine with everything. Because I am.

Ironically, the only concern I expressed to her was over the fact that you are ignoring me, whether you want to admit this or not. You don’t respond to me, which definitely falls under the category of ignoring me. But why?

After everything happened, you told me nothing had changed. Everything was fine and we were going to be okay. But that isn’t the case. I honestly just wish you had been more honest and told me that you were going to cut yourself away. At least then, I could have been a little more prepared.

Being rejected by you was one thing when it was romantic. Being rejected by you now, as a friend, hurts me more. When something bad happens, I want to talk to you about it. When something funny happens, I want to talk to you about it. I honestly just want you to acknowledge that we were close before, in the way that I know we were.

But you can’t even do that for me. You can’t even meet me halfway, so why do I keep subjecting myself to this treatment? Why do I keep letting you make me feel this way? The only explanation I can come up with is that I really did love you, as a friend. My love for you ran deep, and I thought we were on the same page about that. But now, as I sit with unread text and unheard songs, I know we are not.

And that is fine. I can one-up your ignorance, and forget about you completely. Forget about how you made me feel or the things we could talk about for so long and the things that made our friendship what it was. I can move on, and forget.


Do your compliments mean more or are they hollow words only meant to fill in the awkward silent spaces in our conversation? To me, when you compliment the way I look in an outfit, I feel as if this is validation that you do indeed look at me as more than the perpetually goofy, upbeat sidekick. By complimenting my purple hair and thrift-store bought Hawaiian shirt, or the way I approach life and the way my hair looks, you are leading me to think that you look at me differently than the rest.That you see me for my content and not just my appearance. Maybe this is just my love struck heart getting caught up in it all, but I want to believe that it means more. The way you look at me when we speak, and the way you look at me from across the room, fill my heart up to the brink and push me to want more of your alone time. I want to be surrounded by your presence and see the world through your eyes. I want to know what goes on in your head.

But then again, would I like you as much if I was given a glimpse into your personal world? Would I want to stick around, knowing all of your inner thoughts and desires? I find it hard enough to retain feelings after hearing of your hook-ups with girls you have no desire to see tomorrow. I sit here, on my couch, questioning whether it would be worth it to explore your world a little further. I persevere, in hopes that there may be a small place for me to fit in, in your world. A space for just me and you, devoid of the drama and messes associated with college relationships. A place where we listen to offbeat indie music and drink shitty beer, staring at your trippy tapestry and not caring about our individual worlds.


It hit me hard. Harder than I would like to admit. Before you, I had been invincible. With a hardened heart and realistic outlook on the world, no feelings were too out of line or too much for me to subdue. Insert you. Whether it was your insanely great music taste or your crazy love for anything and everything different, I can’t be sure. There were so many things about you that left me on the edge of my seat, willing you to go on and continue speaking even when words had run out.

I was, for lack of a better word, captivated by you. So completely enamored by your presence that it became hard for me to see my own life outside of my time spent with you. I craved you, in the most simple of ways. I craved to be near you at night when my mind ran rampant with looming deadlines and commitments. I craved to hear your words, and their calming effect on my restless heart. But these cravings left me with a dull, bottomless ache in your absence, desperately seeking anything to subdue the feelings for just a little longer.

This ache became particularly harsh at 4:03 in the morning, or rather the night things changed. I could feel my legs and arms clinging to pillows, acting as a placeholder for where you normally slept. My mind, normally consumed with thoughts of the future, was now blank and doubtful about the existence of a future outside of my future with you. But this was where I was. Alone, restless, and trying to figure out where to go from here.

I had gone so long without realizing it, but you were the center of my life. My friends were your friends and my home was your home. There was no clear barrier or break from what was yours and what was mine. I could no longer remember what my life was before you. Where did I like to go and what did I like to do? At precisely 4:05 in the morning, I was realizing that I was not only missing you, but missing my sense of self.

Before, as in before I met you, I was a realist. I was the girl you could count on to drive around with you at 2 am when he didn’t text you back. I was the girl who could listen to you cry and find the right words to say to somehow ease the ache just enough to realize that he was insignificant. I was not, however, the girl who could reciprocate these emotions. I kept my feelings at bay and kept everyone around me at an arm’s length.  I lived my life with a hardened heart, ignorant to fleeting feelings and their inevitable ends. Or so I thought.

It was October of my freshman year when I first met you. I was starting to find my footing and life felt less chaotic. I had a good group of friends around me and I could feel my invincibility peaking. Only three months into school and I had my life together and in control. Nothing could derail me. So I went out, with a group of friends, to a frat house in search of loud people and alcohol.

Enter you. Clad in your black crew neck and overgrown hair, I could tell you were full of yourself by the crowd you had around you and your overly expressive gestures. You were telling a story and had everyone’s attention. I could tell that you thrived off of this energy and that you were trying to add as many details as possible, hoping to captivate and hold your audience’s attention for as long as possible. You were the center of attention, and the complete opposite of me.

Not to say that I didn’t like a good story as much as the next girl, but I didn’t embellish and fabricate specifics to seem more interesting. I was content with my stories, their dullness and all. But you were creative, twisting and molding other worldly scenarios and events into a continuous narrative, attempting to intrigue the listener as much as possible.

As if you were somehow able to read my mind, full of its doubts about the authenticity of your story, our eyes met and you stumbled on your words. Personally, I was taken aback, fearful that my inside thoughts had somehow permeated their way out into the real world and across the room to you. I was snapped out of this thought when I felt my arm being pulled towards another corner of the room. With this, our mutual stare dropped and your story continued.

This was the only interaction I had with you during that night, and I had all but forgotten about this empty moment, until one of my friends brought you up. I didn’t initially realize she was talking about you, but as I watched her mimic your animated gestures and relay some crazy story of a guy’s weekend at some underground music festival, I began to realize she was one of the captivated listeners of your story. After piecing this together, I soon found out your name was Luke and that you were a couple of years older than us. You were apparently quite the charmer and became the sole source of discussion for the rest of the night.

Luke, an excellent story teller with a reputation that proceeded him. You were quite the catch, as my friends said over and over again.

“Luke has such a cool life.”

“Luke has amazing good hair.”

“Luke has the best smile.”

The compliments were overwhelming and I could feel myself start to fade from the conversation as their attention diverted to me. They could tell I wasn’t listening to their declarations of admiration towards you, and this took them by surprise.

“Kate, did you see him? How could you miss him, he is literally your type to a tee.” This was accurate. While I hated to admit it, your grungy vibe was right up my alley and I was initially intrigued. It wasn’t until I observed your animated story telling that my intrigue quickly fleeted. But my friends knew, and they were correct in realizing that out of everyone in our group, I was the one who should have been enamored with you.

So why wasn’t I? I would be lying if I said I didn’t start to question my lack of intrigue. But as we all began to fall asleep and close the door on our night, thoughts of you remained locked away, destined to be just forgotten memories as soon as the sun began to rise just a few hours later.