I LOVE YOU DREAM 2.0

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2024 [[Los Angeles]] [[← back|redstart]]

2025 [[Los Angeles->now]] [[← back|behind?]]

The dream is something you build. Like you build a house. Nail by nail. Slat by slat. Every lightbulb—you screw it in, balancing, with one foot, on this wobbly ladder called [[hope.]] [[← back|say?]]

You are here now, with your knees on the pavement, and all the hair they ripped out. It grew [[back.->oakland]] [[← back|forth.]]

<div style="margin: 0; padding: 0;"> <a data-passage="redstart" style="display: block; margin: 0; padding: 0;"> <img src="ILYD title card.jpeg" style="width: 100vw; height: auto; display: block; margin: 0; padding: 0; ;"> </a> </div> [[← back|vertigo.]]

Since you remember everything you've ever learned about anyone, it's easy to find your art school crush on LinkedIn. You're a little frightened by the deftness of your own stalking, but okay. You open Notes. You'll never send it, but you need to write [[it.->actual letter]] [[← back|alex letter]]

The first time you hang out off campus, she pulls you into Hot Topic to buy friendship necklaces. The necklaces are really cute. Instead of a charm, they dangle a stuffed bear with a clown hat. You can't remember the last time you wore friendship jewelry. You can't believe this is happening. You can't believe it was her [[idea.]] [[← back|2024]]

I had a second meltdown. Probably the real meltdown. I was on speakerphone with Katherine, telling her about the loss of the crush, and I started explaining the whole thing about not wanting to go back to men. “Even when they’re cute, they’re just…I don’t know. They’re men.” I realized I kind of sounded like a lesbian so I tried to walk it back. “I mean, I’m attracted to men. I am.” But I had already thought it, the thought. It was already [[here.->ohno]] [[← back|saying?]]

This becomes a running gag, which makes sense because it's your current favorite lipstick and it requires frequent re-application. But it's just one gag, and soon, there are others. When you compare her to a dolphin, she compares you to a blobfish. When the dude cashier at the used bookstore gives her a discount and not you, she is thrilled. She wants you to wear more makeup. She says you guys are like a couple, and that she's the femme. You're the [[butch.]] [[← back|Sicker.]]

You never feel attracted to her, though she is stunning. You can't tell if she thinks you're pretty. She is one of few people to ever critique your naked body. The others were men who wanted to hurt you. Does she want to hurt you? Sometimes she takes pictures of you and says it's because you just look so beautiful. This makes you blushy and flustered because it's something your boyfriend does. The second time you hang out, she sees you apply a product called Almost Lipstick. The third time, she sees you pull it out of your bag and says, what's that? Putting on your Almost [[Pretty?]] [[← back|wonder.]]

Hey. First off feel free not to read this. I don’t want to cross any [[lines.]] [[← back|story—]]

A handfull of glazed pills. Some dude's filthy bedroom. Starvation. Jagged, awful thoughts. Tunnels. You sank into [[tunnels.->forever]] [[← back|things.]]

I recently saw a picture of my first-ever queer crush, REDACTED6, on Instagram, and almost shit myself. I don’t even like them–our friendship, which was really an unconsummated relationship, ended on a terrible note. There’s no part of me that thinks we should have wound up [[together.]] [[← back|flying.]]

She feels slighted. She makes some accusations. You try to stay neutral because she's talking about people you love. You know you shouldn't love these people this [[much.]] [[← back|try.]]

Hi! So idk if this is totally [[weird]] [[← back|Google.]]

You have to write something for your workshop final, but you're sort of in the middle of an identity crisis, so you decide to write about [[it.->cringe]] [[← back|closer]]

You can't sleep. You reach for your phone on the nightstand and try to unplug it without disturbing Lucy. Her tail flicks but her eyes stay closed. You open [[Google.]] [[← back|letter]]

But she has this quality that you just don't. She's scrappy. Charismatic. People want to root for her, lift her up. And you do, [[too.]] [[← back|it.]]

Your eyes claw at the roots. You try to breathe. Fo no reason, you think of a phrase from your novel: a monster you have spent your whole life trying not to [[know.]] [[← back|leave.]]

There is something wrong with the way you encode memories of men because there is something wrong with the way you see them–or don’t. There is a need that roars in you and it’s not attraction. It claws at the corners of shadows, pulling their gummy grey shade into shapes, messages. You know it in your brain. There is nothing waiting for you in the pits of male pupils. Still, you find yourself tipping forward, leaning, looking for [[it.->stillbirthed]] [[← back|hisvoice]]

[[2025]] [[← back|laugh.]]

Your friendship with her is tense and charged in a way your relationship with your boyfriend is not. More and more, you find yourself bracing for impact, for complaint. She feels abandoned when you choose him over her (you have a set schedule of visitations). She feels abandoned when you are late to pick her up (you are texting her as you finish getting ready). She is, you realize, an extremely sensitive person. You empathize with this. You are, too. It's the part of yourself you struggle to show to others. You feel genuinely honored that she would share hers with you. And besides, she's three years [[younger.->missions.]] [[← back|gross.]]

The question is, why would you tolerate [[them?]] [[← back|page.]]

Which is hilarious because the two of you are so feminine together. And it's really, really fun. Together, you pilgrimage to every Brandy Melville in the LA area. You cover your powder compacts in glittery stickers. You blast Badlands on the highways and commit minor coupon fraud at Victoria's Secret. Like you, she is obsessed with the ephemera of girlhood. Sometimes she takes pictures of your room and your stuff. She says it's for her thesis. You get it. You are writing about it, too: the "girly mess," as she calls [[it.]] [[← back|you.]]

This amuses you and hurts a little bit. How did you land this role? Aesthetically, you are different, but not much. You lend each other clothes and makeup all the time. You live in the same girly cave. Your hair is longer than hers. Is it that you drive? You always put your hand on her the back of her headrest while reversing the car. It's a habit. She says it's "so boyfriend of you." Is [[it?]] [[← back|Pretty?]]

The word “hotter” is not the word I need. They wouldn’t just be more physically appealing to me. In fact, they’d be at around the same level of physical attractiveness. The problem lies elsewhere. I don’t know why, but there is a spark buried in all my queer attractions-this thumping, awakening spirit–that is just vacant in my attractions to [[men.]] [[← back|quotes.]]

Then it’s like the whole thing is suddenly real. It’s like, black and white to full color. If REDACTED1 was a butch I’d be on his couch right now. I’d give anything. I’d do anything. I’d roll [[over.]] [[← back|okayy]]

You turn the corner and find a strip of sidewalk looped with chalk. Wobbly daisies, starry clusters, words. You stop to read [[them.]] [[← back|start]]

The stories. You made the mistake of Googling them. Not one outlet got it right, but you didn't have the guts to reach [[out.]] [[← back|tongue.]]

What do I do here, in this empty [[house?]] [[← back|mine.]]

You get down to your knees. You wince. The last time you were this close to the pavement, you were looking for your [[skin.]] [[← back|eyes.]]

I don’t really have the words for this, but somehow, the REDACTED2 crush feels real, like it counted, and the REDACTED1 crush just feels like a drug I was using on and off. Like, okay. [[Anyways.->okayy]] [[← back|fantasy.]]

2025 [[Los Angeles->again]] [[← back|closer1]]

[[2025->closer]] [[← back|know.]]

You think of the things they gave you, the people who found you there, on the [[pavement.]] [[← back|skin.]]

Take REDACTED1. I was infatuated for AGES. I was, actually, obsessed. We had sex many times. And I lost countless hours of my life to [[fantasy.]] [[← back|men.]]

I think I had suppressed the whole REDACTED3 and REDACTED4 thing until recently, when I found myself rereading some art school diaries. It’s crazy. Even though the crush on REDACTED3 was fleeting, and we only cuddled, and they were honestly kind of annoying, I felt something with them that still makes my heart [[pound.]] [[← back|over.]]

At this point, you feel nauseous. She won't tell you the information she's using to form her conclusions. In fact, she is deeply offended that you ask for [[it.->throw]] [[← back|much.]]

Cringey, yes. But each person you tell loves the idea. It's so you, they [[say.]] [[← back|again]]

Then I imagine him as a butch. And suddenly, I feel tears gathering, blood rushing, stars falling, crashing to [[mud.]] [[← back|sense?]]

A year from now, writing about the end, you will wonder about something that happened a few weeks prior to it. You hadn't seen her in a while and you walked into a room and she was there. She acted like you were, at best, vague acquaintances. A group of boys flocked to her. You stood by the wall, blinking, watching them [[laugh.]] [[← back|up.]]

Wouldn't it be easier to [[just]] [[← back|forever]]

And then you see it. A patch of pavement. You didn't expect this, but you're not the first to find this spot. It's already smeared with [[chalk.]] [[← back|park.]]

Today, his compliment tugged your chest forward with the sudden urge to–what? Kiss him? No, you’re gay. What is it that you [[wanted?]] [[← back|okay]]

When I think of REDACTED2, the proportions are all wrong. A six week crush. I crushed on REDACTED1 for multiple months-long binges AND fucked him over and over. Our connection spanned years and [[cities.]] [[← back|compare.]]

<div style="margin: 0; padding: 0;"> <a data-passage="start" style="display: block; margin: 0; padding: 0;"> <img src="final pic.jpeg" style="width: 60vw; height: auto; display: block; margin: 0; padding: 0; ;"> </a> </div>  [[← back|moment.]]

Why is the non-queer feeling so much further away, regardless of its size, its material importance? [[Why?]] [[← back|mud.]]

God. You have to think...just in terms of [[effort..]] [[← back|Tunnels.]]

[[Anyways.]] [[← back|out.]]

[[2025->letter]] [[← back|that?]]

A pair of scrubs. The pants--those weird synthetic ones. Bright blue. From a nursing [[student.]] [[← back|pavement.]]

There are plenty of places in this world. This breakfast nook is [[mine.]] [[← back|replaced.]]

And seems to be both fascinated and repulsed by your sex life. She takes something from it--a recurring bit of dialogue--for her thesis. You say it's okay as long as it stays anonymous. Sometimes you aren't sure if you should be telling her these things. You love your boyfriend. He's the longest relationship you've ever had. Before you met him you bounced from situationship to life-ruining queer event to crush to hookup and so on. You have not sustained a serious, monogymous thing with anyone since high school. You find men difficult to connect with, in general. They seem to lack some sort of spark. You figure you're just a misandrist and a bisexual and [[bitter.]] [[← back|lol]]

You spend the holidays together. Your family adores her. You take her to the beach--the good one, in Laguna, where you grew up going. She can't believe how beautiful it is. The sunset melts. She tiptoes around slippery rocks. She blasts Tumblr Girls from her iPhone speaker and you dance in the waves like idiots, so happy. Later, looking at the photos together, you joke about your [[honeymoon.]] [[← back|it?]]

Of course, you did. And now, ambling down this endless hallway, you think of the animal, the glassy web of reflection, eyelashes. You blink. It blinks [[back.]] [[← back|voice.]]

<div style="margin: 0; padding: 0;"> <a data-passage="lol" style="display: block; margin: 0; padding: 0;"> <img src="names in sand.jpeg" style="width: 100vw; height: auto; display: block; margin: 0; padding: 0; ;"> </a> </div>  [[← back|her.]]

You build it for you and someone to [[share.]] [[← back|20th]]

For some reason this is a thought experiment I’d never done. Once I began I couldn’t stop. I drove to Santa Monica to pick up a paper copy of The First Bad Man. It’s ridiculous that I don’t own a copy of what is functionally my Bible. I’m making a zine for workshop about it. I need a paper book so I can find and transcribe [[quotes.]] [[← back|ohno]]

Whatever I want. I’m [[free.->next]] [[← back|cat]]

You ran because you had a thought. It wasn't a thought you've ever had and it kicked you in the stomach so you had to [[leave.]] [[← back|now]]

Hi. You probably don’t [[remember—]] [[← back|lines.]]

I’m [[sorry.]] [[← back|remember—]]

The truth is, you have sort of an issue making friends. Which is maybe what draws you two together. She is scathing but only because she is brilliant. You know this: you have read her writing. You are not easily [[impressed.]] [[← back|Los Angeles]]

You know her brain is thorny and gorgeous. She is not always easy. Neither are [[you.]] [[← back|idea.]]

Her thesis is about a girl who becomes entangled in her own lies. Or, entangled in a relationship with her older male teacher--or something about satirizing antisemitism, or snowblindness. She isn't Jewish but, again, she is brilliant. You never get to read her thesis. You don't need to. You know what she's capable of. Her advisor is telling her to send it to literary agents and you urge her to listen to him. No one has ever told you that, maybe because you present yourself as someone who is already determined to publish your novel. Which you are. Secretly, you wish someone would tell you [[anyway.]] [[← back|boyfriend.]]

You regret showing her pictures of your masc phase, a brief period of gender experimentation that occured while you were in rehab. You wonder if it warped her idea of you. You feel something akin to....dysphoria? It's confusing. You don't tell [[her.]] [[← back|butch.]]

Hi! Funny [[story—]] [[← back|weird]]

Wouldn't it be easier to just read the [[poem?->that.]] [[← back|effort..]]

<div style="margin: 0; padding: 0;"> <a data-passage="closer1" style="display: block; margin: 0; padding: 0;"> <img src="tree.jpeg" style="width: 60vw; height: auto; display: block; margin: 0; padding: 0; ;"> </a> </div>  [[← back|assembling.]]

You broke down in the parking garage. Why are you always one step [[behind?]] [[← back|driving.]]

But, like a hound or a curse or a shooting star, it chased you down the hallway and bounded over the lawn. Your chest is pounding. It's here. The thought is here, in your lap, [[assembling.]] [[← back|hyperventilating.]]

He said, poetry is the only medium that is deleterious to its own materials. A sheet of paper with a poem on it is less valuable than a blank [[sheet.]] [[← back|room.]]

2025 [[Los Angeles->alex letter]] [[← back|free.]]

Hey. So this might be super weird. I just feel like I need to say it. We went to art school together a million yrs ago and I was a huge dick to you and now I know why. I just wanted to tell you: [[I'm sorry—->i am sorry]] [[← back|So—]]

Your boyfriend isn't thrilled about this. You explain that friendships between queer women are complicated and powerful. He is unconvinced, but, in retrospect, incredibly nice. When she's able to get an emergency housing assignment, he helps you move her stuff into the new apartment. She says, you guys are [[gross.]] [[← back|honeymoon.]]

Let’s [[compare.]] [[← back|butch1]]

[[2025->somewhere]] [[← back|me—]]

Did you know that when you showed up to that queer meeting in the tenderloin with faith rawson and a leopard spotted neck I wanted to kill you? You made me feel like a human with a body and then it ended, so easily, before it could actually fucking begin. I tried to bury the gift you gave me. I did bury it. But it stayed there. And now, a month from my 27th birthday, it won’t stop screaming, so I’m digging it up. You changed my life on those twin XL mattresses. You didn’t even take my clothes off. It didn’t matter. You undressed my lie. Like that piece you performed in the New Genres studio that took my breath away. It involved putting on and taking off endless layers of clothes. I don’t know if it was the art or just seeing you in that spotlight, unblinking, brave. There I was. Washed in beauty. Horrified. A stillbirthed queer but still: [[birthed. ->menstart]] [[← back|sorry.]]

I’m moving in, alone. With Lucy, actually. The happy couple can find somewhere else. A motel or a fairytale castle. Okay. This place, with these tiles, laid by my hands….no, they will not occupy. In fact, they will not trespass. I’m putting up a sign. Ring cameras. Maybe I’ll get a pitbull trained specifically to chase them [[off.->cat]] [[← back|fuck off]]

You see in her a kind of trapped, whirling stardust. A limitless power. Secretly, you suspect you might be able to bend a spoon with your mind. You believe that, someday, you will. You believe she will, too. You don't say it enough, but when you are with her, in your idling car, eating Del Taco and talking shit, you feel radiant. You have found your cosmic twin. And that is a tenderness whose rarity you cannot put into words. But you will [[try.]] [[← back|bitter.]]

There are different words for it. They call it a Wednesday afternoon in Century City. They call it non-celiac gluten sensitivity. They call it a dirty bathroom mirror. Getting a rag. The glass spray--somewhere under the sink. Oh, there it is. Misting the surface. Wiping it clean. Hearing that rubbery squeak, like a seal, honking. Tossing the rag in the hamper. Turning back and seeing yourself, the same stubborn pimples and uneven eyelids. Clearer. They call it the truth, or, other times, the [[future.->final]] [[← back|opposite]]

She is upset about an outcome that, though understandably upsetting, was also statistically predictable. You were a little upset when you heard it, too. The same outcome applies to both of you, but she is fixated on herself. She suggests what sounds like a [[conspiracy.]] [[← back|academic.]]

I don't understand my queerness. I don't understand why this magic switch exists in my [[brain.->flying.]] [[← back|down.]]

[[2025->today]] [[← back|house?]]

It's a beautiful day. You are between the roots of a tree, clutching your knees, [[hyperventilating.]] [[← back|2025]]

Leaving the office of your undergrad research mentor, you stumble down a foreign hallway, searching the walls for a [[sign.]] [[← back|somewhere]]

You will never forget the kindnesses, large and small, that got you here: your center, cracked open, flowing. The place where the chalk meets the [[pavement.->water]] [[← back|Anyways.]]

I realized something. When I think of a guy I’m attracted to, it’s always because he’s “pretty.” It’s always because he is masculine with an edge of softness. If I picture, say, this guy from a podcast who I think is really cute. If I picture him with the same presentation, but as a butch…he’s like, eleven million times [[hotter.]] [[← back|Powell]]

You can’t remember what movie it’s from. You’re not sure how it surfaced. You had a strange feeling, sitting across from the research mentor. You explained your predicament–well, one of them. The one relating to your scholarship. He was so patient. He called you brilliant. He’s read a lot of your writing because he was in a workshop with you. You first met him last fall, when you totally derailed your first meeting to say you thought your boyfriend was about to break up with you (you were right). The research mentor told you about his long distance relationship. He seemed hopeful, which seemed, to you, kind of delusional. But that’s you. So little [[faith.]] [[← back|sure.]]

Now, if I picture REDACTED1 as a [[butch...->butchhi]] [[← back|cities.]]

Quite the opposite. It has hunted you down. Pinned you to this moment. Pierced you, at [[last.->moment.]] [[← back|water]]

Not your fault. Right? Right. You were weak. But you could have made a difference by speaking up. But then...you still go back and [[forth.]] [[← back|care.]]

There’s this quality of….aliveness that my queer feelings have. And my feelings towards men….they exist, obviously. They just don’t remotely [[compare.->comparing]] [[← back|butchhi]]

You were at a low point in terms of self esteem and promiscuity. And, honestly, you were right. Most people you were dealing with did not want you. They merely tolerated your precense in this [[body.]] [[← back|sheet.]]

You walk around for a while, looking for a spot. It's huge here. Mostly golf courses. The sun cuts into your [[eyes.]] [[← back|tomorrow]]

A small tupperware of berries--cherries? You can't remember. You never ate them, but for weeks, you kept them in the [[fridge.]] [[← back|comets.]]

You are wandering into white and thinking of one eyeball. It had no striking color, only a striking question. It blinked. At you? You can’t be [[sure.]] [[← back|sign.]]

I don’t think it’s because they were an exceptional personality. And I wasn’t immediately attracted to them. I think it’s because, when they crawled on top of me, I was expecting them to crawl right off, but they didn’t. Every second they stayed felt like Roman structures collapsing. Dust, marble, [[flying.->why??]] [[← back|comparing]]

As I drove, I passed several cute, scrawny boys skateboarding. Floppy hair, big t-shirts. Every single one, I realized with horror, would be hotter as a [[butch.->butch1]] [[← back|hotter.]]

I felt pretty damn high with REDACTED7. I mean, I fell deep enough in love with them to still be having nightmares about it a decade later. To destroy myself for them all over again a decade later. There was an epic sense of scale to that relationship. And yet, when I compare it to REDACTED6, or REDACTED8, or REDACTED9, or my passing flirtations with REDACTED10 or REDACTED11, or my infatuations with REDACTED12 or a million other straight girls who never once thought of me that way…why do my queer feelings feel…feelier? What is [[that?]] [[← back|stage.]]

[[2024]] [[← back|DREAM1]]

I still [[remember—->i'm sorry]] [[← back|i am sorry]]

The thing is, this is my place. It was supposed to be ours. But I fashioned this gift. It is not on the fucking market. You’d have to reach through my ribs to get at [[it.->fuck off]] [[← back|share.]]

Well, it didn't make you. You [[left.]] [[← back|want.]]

Normally you hate when people say that. Anything that is so you is usually something other people don't [[want.]] [[← back|cringe]]

From your diary: May [[20th]] [[← back|upnext]]

From your diary: May 7th Night [[Powell]] [[← back|that.]]

My queer self is so raw I can barely stand it. My "straight" self has to work herself into a frenzy of storytelling to get to a place where...it's like, I can inflate the size of the feeling, but I cannot move it closer to me. Does that make any goddamn [[sense?]] [[← back|why??]]

I imagine REDACTED5, about as hot as a guy can get. I mean, really, he should model. He is carved, tall, gorgeously endowed in every feature. Fucking him sounds hot. If he offers I won't turn him [[down.]] [[← back|self.]]

But when the day comes, they pull up in a u-haul and start unloading: a couch, a lamp, her. You stand across the street, your mouth open, your hope [[replaced.]] [[← back|hope.]]

It slaughtered you, the knowing. You thought, I am the poem. My body is the [[page.]] [[← back|left.]]

You stood to leave. You said thank you, for everything. You complimented his writing, which is genuinely good. You have a thing, you said. A [[voice.]] [[← back|wanted?]]

A bathroom sign. You need to [[pee.]] [[← back|nowhere]]

You were wondering where it went. You didn't find any. Only blood: small streaks, the tails of lousy [[comets.]] [[← back|chalk.]]

2025 [[Los Angeles->nowhere]] [[← back|menstart]]

I'm sorry. I wish I had gone to that deerhunter concert with you instead of hiding under the covers looping helicopter and stewing in my misery. I was terrified of standing in a crowd with you, without our group around, only strangers and half light and woozy guitars. I think I would have pased out from happiness. I wish I would have just gone and done it and collapsed. I think you would have caught [[me—]] [[← back|i'm sorry]]

I had my eyes on REDACTED7 and my hand in REDACTED6’s. I barely remember what REDACTED7 looked like up there. I remember my heart fucking pounding. I remember feeling like history itself was happening to me. It’s so hard to describe this. This __bigness.__ This __significance.__ This sense of being a person on a planet in space. It is so fucking bracing and [[real.]] [[← back|together.]]

It is 2025 in Los Angeles. You walk to the car with a white pastry bag under your arm. Sun climbs over the elbows of tree branches. The bark is warm, you can tell just from looking. This neighborhood is quiet and your lungs are open. Skipping class for the gluten free bakery was the right [[call.]]

[[2025->upnext]] [[← back|back.]]

Okay, hi. [[So—]] [[← back|jarring]]

A bottle of Mountain Valley water from the nearby Whole Foods. You had never tasted it before. You were surprised. It was so crisp on your [[tongue.]] [[← back|fridge.]]

At the camera, certainly. A male voice told you, in floating narration, something about animals having no souls. He said, what you are seeing is your own emotion, reflected back at [[you.->okay]] [[← back|pee.]]

Wouldn't it be easier to just read the poem? A few [[words?->saying?]] [[← back|just]]

I am having a horrible realization. I am realizing that the word for this disconnect…it might be [[lesbian.->free.]] [[← back|real.]]

You read them and keep walking. Good to know kids are still exploring chalk. Analog isn't dead. The news is wrong. You prefer oil pastels--you prefer wax to dust. But [[whatever.]] [[← back|call.]]

The absence of an answer became one of your problems. This horrid collection. You would do anything to [[sleep.->things.]] [[← back|body.]]

A handful of glossy pills. Some dude's filthy bedroom. Starvation. Jagged, awful thoughts. [[Tunnels.]] [[← back|body.]]

Driving home, you wonder if you should pull over. How did you get here? You feel like you're skidding. You're going to throw [[up.]] [[← back|conspiracy.]]

2025 [[Los Angeles->tomorrow]] [[← back|next]]

But when I imagine the tiniest moments with REDACTED6–them reaching for my hand during the modern dance showcase, where my boy crush, REDACTED7, was performing halfhearted leaps across a rubbery [[stage.]] [[← back|Why?]]

When it's time, you drive to the [[park.]] [[← back|today]]

The gauze. Your best friend, the best person you know. They took you home. They wrapped your knees with such [[care.]] [[← back|student.]]

She is in a truly harrowing situation. So you invite her move in with you, and then, because you live in a studio with no couch, to sleep in your bed. Your nights now alternate between sleeping with her and sleeping with your boyfriend. He jokes that you guys are in some fucked up poly relationship. You will look back on this joke and [[wonder.]] [[← back|anyway.]]

One day, after an excruciating exam, you drive to ktown to shop by yourself. She calls you. She is upset about something [[academic.]] [[← back|missions.]]

You don't. You keep [[driving.]] [[← back|throw]]

2025 [[Los Angeles->say?]] [[← back|stilbirthed]]

And as you drive, you start to wonder: should you pull over? Why would you? What is this itch? You squint through the glare of the afternoon collapsing. You look back. Rub your neck. It's something to do with the [[pavement.->DREAM1]] [[← back|whatever.]]

His mouth was open, caught. Like it was going to say: don’t [[leave.->hisvoice]] [[← back|sigh]]

On the first day of class, your angelic teacher said something that made you leave the [[room.]] [[← back|say.]]

You wanted to kiss him without kissing him. You wanted to say thank [[you.->sigh]] [[← back|faith.]]

Your eyes water. Probably the sun, the pollen, your exhaustion, giving out. Surrendering to a thing you thought would never want [[you.->opposite]] [[← back|oakland]]

Hey, so I know this is [[jarring]] [[← back|actual letter]]

You hop into the driver's seat, shut the door--but there's something, a vague wrongness, swimming next to your ear. A question, flicking its tail. Tickling [[you.->vertigo.]] [[← back|them.]]

I'm just...I think it's interesting that I analyze every fucking thing in my brain and my life and I've never, ever stopped to think about this massive emotional rift between my queer self and my "straight" [[self.]] [[← back|pound.]]

She doesn't really understand your illness which is your fault for never explaining. This is a problem you will work on in the future. You will get braver and better at explaining. But for now, you spend all your time with someone who barely sleeps and runs on the fumes of flavored caffiene. You need a lot of sleep. You are sensitive to stimulants. Your gluten and dairy intolerances are no fun for her. Your introversion--your need to recharge in isolation--is a drag. You know these things and you are ashamed. What you don't know is that your illness is not in remission. It is actually growing back twice as bad as before. In two years you will go into surgery for something unrelated and wake up to the news that you were, in fact, sick. [[Sicker.]] [[← back|too.]]

Soon you are seeing her more than your boyfriend. Which makes sense, because she lives a few blocks away, and he's on the east side. She can't drive and you don't mind carting her around. She calls herself the passenger princess and sometimes calls you her [[boyfriend.]] [[← back|impressed.]]