I was a freshman at Cal State LA and hadn’t made any friends yet. So I joined a club that was announcing its first socially distanced event: Beach Day in Santa Monica. I thought about jumping at the last minute but my older brother encouraged me. He had a friend who was a member of the same club. I reluctantly reached out and my brother’s friend invited me to meet him at the South Pasadena metro station so we could catch the train together. I said yes, but honestly I wasn’t looking forward to spending hours with a stranger on a train.
When I arrived he was already waiting and waved at me.
He stretched out his hand. “Nice to meet you.” I took it and introduced myself.
“The first thing I like to ask everyone,” he said, “what did you have for breakfast?”
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“I don’t eat breakfast,” I replied, and he gave me an incredulous look.
“What why?”
“I work out for breakfast,” I said, then immediately wanted to kick myself in the butt because it was such a silly thing to do.
He looked amused and we continued talking while we waited.
“So what do you do to have fun? I mean, besides working out and not eating breakfast.” He gave me a lopsided smile that made my stomach tap dance.
I had to admit: he was so effortlessly charismatic and funny. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.
I told him I liked reading and we talked about books for a while. (He mentioned that he had just finished The Art of Witty Banter.)
“Do you often take the subway?” I asked. He nodded. “Every day.” I looked around for our train. “It’s so stressful for me,” I confessed. The last time I rode the metro was in third class. “And I almost got off at the wrong stop, so my teacher had to pull me back by the hood of my jacket.”
He laughed and I noticed he had dimples.
When our train arrived all my worries were gone. It was so easy to talk to him. We were soon in Santa Monica for a fun day playing cards on the beach and avoiding the cold and salty water.
The train back was full and we had to stand for the first part of the journey. We held on to a pole and quietly watched the people together. When a seat opened up at the next stop, he turned to me, eyes shining.
He gestured with exaggerated formality to the now empty seat and asked, “Excuse me, ma’am, would you like to sit down?”
“Oh my god,” I murmured as I rolled my eyes and stifled a smile. As I sat down, a warm, rosy hue crept up my cheeks.
As the ride resumed, he leaned against the bar and looked at me. I studied him back. His eyes. They were framed by dark, curled lashes that spread out in all directions. They were hazel. Or were they just light brown? They also had small spots of amber in them. Whatever color they were, they were dreamy. And unnerving. I broke eye contact.
We fell silent, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. I found myself looking at him more than a few times. Once we played charades to pass the time. We thought we were quiet but I think we were a little too enthusiastic. A woman a few seats away called out an answer. She was right and we all laughed.
As we neared our train station, I wished the journey was longer. I knew once we got to our stop, reality would kick in and what felt like a dream would end.
I wanted to stay on that train, sitting in the hard seat that lacked a cushion, surrounded by two dozen people peering over masks, the stench of marijuana wafting in the distance, staring at a boy with beautiful eyes.
The train slowly stopped and the doors opened. We grabbed our bags and got out. It was already dark and my mother had written to tell me where she would pick me up.
He told me he was going home and pointed in the opposite direction
.
I felt hectic, but didn’t let my emotions show through my nonchalance. I said good bye. I turned and as I walked away he called my name.
When I looked back he was standing there with his arms outstretched and a big grin on his face.
For one dizzying moment I forgot everything that stood in our way – he was busy planning his upcoming graduation and taking a gap year, I was just starting college. I ran back to hug him. Then he was gone.
As I set out to find my mother, I looked back a few times but couldn’t make out his retreating silhouette in the darkness.
A few days later I found an excuse to reach him and we started walking together in the local park. There was always so much to tell. And there was always that hug to look forward to when we parted.
One evening, while walking, I asked him if we could become something. He’d told me before that he used his time outside of class to work on himself, that he didn’t want anyone in his life to be romantic. Would he consider making an exception for me?
I hated the hope I still secretly nurtured.
He was silent. And every second that passed made my heart beat faster. Make my breathing irregular. Maybe, just maybe…
No, he said.
I nodded. I understand it. It really made sense.
Why did it still feel like my heart was physically breaking?
I slowed as my house came into view. Every step felt like a countdown. Five feet away, 4 feet, 3, 2, and soon we were on my doorstep.
He held out his arms and I buried my face in his chest.
It felt like goodbye. It felt like the end. It felt like the end, but we didn’t even start.
Then I let go.
The author is a freshman at Cal State LA college studying finance and creative writing.
LA Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the LA area, and we want to hear your real story. We pay $300 for a published essay. Email [email protected]. The submission guidelines can be found here. Past columns can be found here.
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