I’ve spent my week rewatching Wes Anderson movies. I half-watched them once with a boy I liked and from that day on, I decided I loved them- almost as much as I loved telling people how much I loved Wes Anderson movies. They’re such a “cool girl” thing to like. I even recited my favorites on command- Grand Budapest Hotel, Life Aquatic and Royal Tenenbaums. I’m pleased to report my fake favorites are my actual favorites- I feel like less of an imposter after going back to watch those- the things we get consumed in for the “almosts.”

This is not a very happy story but it’s a familiar one for anyone who’s ever had to move on from something that just didn’t work and you couldn’t understand why - this is an ode to the confusing, jarring almost loves. I’ll continue to chronicle the year of almost-fantastic men. Almosts - those loves that feel like they get so close to the real thing, but with blindspots, bright red flags, and shades of gray (not the sexy kind). I’ll call this one Ethan. 

I’ll tell the story how I remember it. To be honest, I’ve worked hard to forget some parts because it’s easier to write the version in my brain that assigns blame and points a finger at one side, whether or not they deserve the “bad guy” label.

We met outside of his front door. Lonely New York Men should know- it really is as easy as stepping outside your front door sometimes and BOOM, you find yourself a slightly unhinged hottie, ready to occupy your xbox time or ruin your life. 

I used to wake up every morning at 6am to go to my beloved boxing studio. The subway would spit me out in front of Ethan’s door around 6:30 ish. I’d come up the subway station stairs, cross the street and he’d be there, leaving his apartment to catch the train to Connecticut. A reverse commuter- I joke this was the first red flag. I’d continue to run into him at the same time every day for a couple of weeks, each time exchanging a few more niceties before heading into my boxing studio. 

Going to an edgy workout class in Manhattan requires dressing like something between a dominatrix and an NFL cheerleader, I think they kick you out if you show up in a team-building t-shirt. I boxed in leather-looking leggings and sports bras that brought my tits up to my eyeballs, perfect attire for attracting the city’s finest, emotionally-unavailable hedge fund managers. 

After day 4 of running into Ethan consistently, I’d hop off the L train and undo the top button on my puffy coat - just trashy enough to make him wonder if I knew what I was doing. Like, oh, you again! And me dressed like this, how embarrassing. After enough meet-cute’s, I’d make the first move and give Ethan my number. 

“I don’t know how many more times this is gonna happen, us running into each other like this. I’d really like to have coffee or a drink with you.” I’d never done that before, I felt high walking into the boxing studio. 

It would be nearly a month of social media stalking and me inviting Ethan out before he eventually caved. He came over for lasagna, one of five things I can actually cook to trick a man into thinking I know my way around a kitchen. If you want lasagna, turkey chili or what I call “stuff” on toast, I’m yer’ girl. 

Ethan was the combined energy of so many of my favorite things- he was soul music, long walks on the water, extravagant meals, and expensive wine. He made me feel the joy I felt from all of those things, just in the form of a person. A disclaimer belongs here- should you be lucky enough to find the feeling of home in a person, they can’t be held responsible for your happiness or actually be your home until you learn to do that for yourself. 

I never laughed like I did with Ethan. And that’s what I’d go on to tell my friends about him- how he was so fun and how I never laughed like that. But the truth is, I say that about everyone who feels like a home after I’ve been alone for too long. We drank plenty of wine, I’d light my Le Labo candles, we’d sit on my couch eating takeout and when it’s cold in New York and you’re confined to your apartment, that sort of cuffing season illusion can feel like something it isn’t. I talked a lot and he listened well. And then I’d do what I do best- I doted. And then I doted some more, like I was a guest in my own home, always walking on my tippy toes (literally) to take care of this person who wasn’t for me at all, but was too polite to say so. 

My favorite thing in the whole wide world is gifting. I gift my heart with the things I actually gift. It was Ethan’s birthday and I managed to finagle a signed cookbook from a chef he worshipped. Even I knew I outdid myself with that birthday gift but the next morning, I’d find myself on the receiving end of an all too familiar look. He sat on my couch, preparing the words in his head and then came out with it. “I don’t know if I want this. I need some time to think about it, maybe a couple weeks.”

In my most masochistic moment, I begged for a love that wasn’t ever actually for me. 
“And then what happens after two weeks? You’ll come back?” 

I still can’t believe that was my response- asking him for something I didn’t know how to give myself. When someone tells you they don’t want to be with you, I hope you’ll love yourself enough to say “ that’s fine, thank you for your honesty” instead of begging them to give you something they don’t have to give. He walked out of my apartment shortly after breakfast and I insisted on walking him to the Williamsburg Bridge, tears quietly rolling down my face while I bit my tongue to not make a sound. We walked side by side until we got to the bridge, where he held my face like a crystal ball, staring down into his guilt, asking himself if he was the idiot or if he just wasn’t for me. I asked him one last time, like, maybe he changed his mind on the walk from my apartment to the bridge path. 

“So I’ll see you in a couple weeks?” 
“Maybe, I don’t know.”
“But you’ll come back? Is this the last time I’ll see you? What if you don’t come back in two weeks?”
“Then I guess we’ll know.”
“Can you just tell me you’ll come back? You’ll come back.”
“I’ll come back.”

He didn’t come back. He wasn’t a bad guy, as much as I needed him to be. He was always kind in every check-in after that walk to the bridge path. I never asked again if he was coming back because I got my answer and instead, we were doomed to follow each other on social media until one of us dies or quietly untethers from the other. Did I hope there would have been a different outcome? I did for a long time. I spent plenty of time thinking if I do this thing, maybe that’ll get his attention and he’ll miraculously come back. Until I stopped myself from hiding another desperate clue in my social media and reminding myself, Sis, if he wanted to be here, he’d be here. 

It’s like going back to a restaurant you tried once and swear you love. You remember it being this incredible place with that euphoric off-menu thing and that’s how it stays in your memory. If you go back, it’s probably still good but not the same way you built it up in your head. No one sings, there are no choreographed musical numbers, or intoxicating feelings of nostalgia after the first bite- it’s just okay. 

Ethan and I were one big emotional gray zone. Almost love heartbreak hurts because you’re actually the one breaking your own heart by bending on non-negotiables and giving up pieces of who you are because you so desperately want to be wanted. That “almost” potential can be infuriating and just as painful as a breakup- like watching the seemingly-predictable character in a movie fuck everything up. You want to throw a shoe at your TV, yelling, “but I was rooting for you!”

It wasn’t bad timing, as much as I could alphabetize the excuses I found for why he never came back. I gave myself the allotted sad, wallowing time. I can still put together this perfect picture in my head of Ethan dancing shirtless in my living room, wearing my Coachella hat and the ribbon from his birthday gift tied around his neck- one of those images I’d write into a rom com if I ever had the audacity to script my lovelife. 

When Ethan left me holding my breath and holding onto his t-shirt, I made a physical list of all the things I wanted in a partner. If I go back and read that list, there’s a lot of things on there that he wasn’t that I convinced myself I’d be okay with anyway. Listing Ethan’s deal breakers and red flags could be an entirely separate blog post but the lesson here is that the “almosts” bring us closer to what chooses us back. Ethan was an almost that I really wanted to be love and he couldn’t be that for me. For that, I’m grateful, and I don’t say that out of spite, I say that because I truly believe every person you meet comes to teach you more about what you want and who you are. As for Ethan, he could be secretly married, leading a double life or whatever other excuse I’d like to come up with for why he didn’t choose me. You’re allowed to mourn the almosts, as long as they don’t become the shadow that follows you when you do find the person who feels like expensive wine and Le Labo candles and all of your favorite things.