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I didn’t really go into great detail about these things with my friends or family, because I was embarrassed and didn’t want to burden anyone with my self-loathing and existential fears. A part of me also suspected that no one wanted to hear about any of it anyway. “Oh…” before I could process what all of this meant, Nick started touching me. I wasn’t sure how he was taking in anything I was saying. uncomfortable.” “I’m okay,” I lied, avoiding his eyes. “Western culture doesn’t know how to deal with death. All you can do is live your life.” “Yeah.” I stared at the eccentrically adorned walls of the bar, wondering what I was doing here. Once we were outside the bar, Nick offered me a piggyback ride. I slowly moved to unlock the driver’s door and got in, eyeing him. Okay.” I got out, hugged him, then climbed back into my seat. “You don’t have to be so awkward,” he said over his shoulder. And for the piggyback ride lol We ended up meeting at Caffe Strada again on the following Tuesday evening instead. Was he really going to start off the date by prompting me to talk about suicide?

One day, while skimming through potential matches on Tinder, I paused on the profile of a guy I will call Nick. It was just him posing with people I assumed were his friends (and maybe a girlfriend, it was hard to tell), but I thought he looked really hot in it: he had a nice smile, a head full of dark and luxurious hair, plus he dressed well. He was working as an EMT, volunteered at a clinic, and planned to go to nursing school soon. The Thai restaurant was closing at 10, so I suggested meeting in Berkeley instead. I felt like everyone around me was moving on and doing big things, while I had slowly but steadily fallen behind, stuck in a rut of my own doing. “Thanks.” I sat next to him, because there was no table and therefore no option to sit across from him. “I would have to be stupid to do that,” he said, but obliged me anyway. I explained what the tattoo on my forearm meant–“Rootless, I existentially write myself the stable world,” a quote from Chinese American author, Maxine Hong Kingston. Was I that desperate to derail from my own anxieties about physical intimacy that I would invoke my roommate’s suicide as a cover? Yet, the more I talked about it, the more I felt the weight of what happened, rising up from where I had tried to bury it. ” “I just haven’t had very good experiences with it.” He seemed somewhat frustrated by this response, but didn’t push any further. I was tired and clearly not in an emotional space to be good company. That my roommate was a queer black woman who had lived in a country that told her she didn’t matter and shouldn’t exist, that maybe the anti-blackness and homophobia got to be too much and maybe that’s why she ended her life. He would probably say something that would make me like him less than I already did. Then: “I went to Chicago a little while ago to check out a school there,” he said, rather abruptly. ” This was taking a completely different turn from what I was expecting. He was trying to make me feel better, but he was only making me feel worse. I was crying in my room and in my car more often because life seemed increasingly meaningless and I didn’t want to consider the alternative but I didn’t want to consider life either so I was trapped in this weird emotional space of not wanting to exist but also not wanting to kill myself. “I’m just going to move your bag,” he said casually, picking up my purse and sliding it over so it was no longer between us. “For me, it means not really having a home because of my identity as a Cambodian American, and so I have to sort of create my own idea of home and identity through my writing,” I said, rather clumsily. But a part of me was excited by this, had longed for this. My body was tense, caught between two polarizing feelings: arousal, because he was attractive and showing me that he wanted me, and repulsion, caused by his violation of invisible boundaries that other guys before him had known not to cross. Nick tried to offer me reassuring words (and more massages). But my mind was hazy, and I was so tired I wasn’t sure if I could move. Nick shamelessly suggested we make out in the backseat of his car. I guess the point was for us to kiss and figure out whether or not we would like it (and in turn, each other), but I was still somewhat traumatized from the debacle with Brian #2 and was afraid that the same thing would happen with Nick. “I’m not taking you home with me…” He leaned against the side of my car and watched me with that same unreadable expression. I’m also not a very physically affectionate person so I tend to get super awkward and uncomfortable when that happens…anyway thanks for bearing with me. “I could be,” he answered, sipping his stupid chai tea. That as a non-black, heterosexual person, I bore some of the communal responsibility for her death, for being a beneficiary and passive consumer of a culture and society that had devalued her as a human being. ” “You’re gonna judge me.” God, this cafe was so fucking quiet. ” He started rattling off nonsensical arguments about why I should tell him my true calling anyway. “For a living.” I was completely avoiding eye contact now, but I could feel him eyeballing the side of my head.

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