What i didn’t say that night in july 2023

“Nope,” he says with this dry finality, head resting against his bedroom wall. “Women don’t like me.” His tone is almost deadpan, but there’s the faintest twitch of amusement in his mouth.

I roll my eyes, leaning forward. “That’s so false. You know that’s not true.”

He glances at me, one eyebrow lifting just slightly, like he’s about to contradict me but is taking his time. “Okay,” he says finally, his voice stretching the word out just a little. “There was this one chick at Ithaca."  Okay, here we go. 

“We’d been talking for maybe two weeks. I took her to this diner after a long night once, and she told me she needs to talk to me about something. Just reaches into her bag and pulls something out.” He clicks his tongue, miming her as he yanks an imaginary folded paper from behind his back. “And she starts reading a note to me. Saying ‘Tyler, I never met anyone like you… you’re so funny and charming… I want to be more than just friends.’”

My jaw drops before I can stop it, so I slap a hand over my mouth. He clears his throat, holding a finger up like he’s not done. “And then she hands me the piece of paper. It was handwritten.”

I blink, then laugh — too quick, too nervous. “I think you just got a love letter.”

“And my fingers left grease marks on it because I was eating disco fries.” He lifts his wine, takes a slow sip, his eyes locked on mine.

“So what did you do?”  

“I just said ‘thanks,’ and that was the end of it. I haven’t talked to her since.”

Another laugh escapes me, but this one is tighter, thinner, almost forced. “So you ghosted her?” My teeth grit around the words. “I think that’s just as bad, Tyler.” 

He rolls his eyes, takes another long swig of wine, then pushes himself up, wobbling a little as he stands. He extends his arm toward me. “I know, now she hates me. Want me to take that?” His gaze flicks to my empty glass on the table.

I nod slowly. He balances both glasses — one tucked in his armpit, the other dangling from his hand — before exiting his bedroom. “But the note was all absolutely insane,” he says, looking right at me, like he’s waiting for me to sign off on it.

I bite my tongue, forcing myself to nod. “Yeah,” I manage. “That’s… yeah, definitely weird.”

His cat squeezes through the crack in the bedroom door and, without hesitation, launches himself onto the navy comforter. The door swings open behind him. Tyler scoops the cat with one arm and, with a quick toss, sends him skittering back onto the floor before slipping out the door with the wine glasses. Just like that, he’s gone. Leaving me alone in his room, with the cat and with my thoughts on his bedroom carpet. Five long minutes stretch out like forever.

My mind keeps looping back to that Ithaca chick. And suddenly I’m seventeen again, scribbling lines I thought were clever, packaging up feelings I couldn’t say out loud. A handful of words stacked into a form of a haiku for an Honors English final. I remember the pride, seeing the big red A on the top of the assignment, how I couldn’t resist putting it out there for everyone to see. Did he see it? Oh no. Did he ever know it was about him? My thoughts spiral fast, the room suddenly too warm. Does he remember? Does he want me to say something now?

God, maybe I was even more dumb than the Ithaca chick. At least she had the guts to read hers out loud. Me? I wrote about him anonymously and put it on my VSCO like it deserved a gallery wall.  But hey, at least I got an A on it.

Then, abruptly: “Do you ever think about how weird it is that everyone has an inner monologue, but we’ll never actually hear anyone else’s voice inside their head?”

His footsteps drag across the soft white carpet from outside. I jolt upright, snapping my head toward the front of his room, every muscle tight. Around the corner, his shadow stretches long against the wall, growing larger as he approaches.

I quickly nod. “Yeah. But it can be nice to have that privacy sometimes.” I say, trying to control my shaking voice. “There’s power in having your own thoughts. And keeping them to yourself.” 

He walks past me, socks sliding against his carpet, and picks up his cat again who was nestled right next to me and throws him back onto the bed, just tossing him around like a toy again. “I mean I guess if you just have one voice in your head. I’ve got three,” he mutters, eyes flicking to me.

I shake my head, shifting until I’m perched on my heels. “Okay, I’m sorry but can we talk about that Ithaca chick?”  

He flops backward onto the bed with a dramatic sigh.

I roll my eyes. “This just proves my point — girls do like you. Actually, they love you, apparently. If you want a girlfriend, maybe you should just hit up ‘Love Letter Girl.’”

“Love Letter Girl,” he repeats with a laugh. He drags his hands down his face, fingertips pulling everything with them — eyelids sagging, cheeks sinking, the corners of his mouth drooping — until his arms fall and smack hard against the bed at his sides.

“No, she’s crazy. It was fine until she said ‘I love you.’” He pauses. “Maybe I just like women who hate me.”

“Oh my god. Shut up.” 

By the time we wander back into the kitchen, hours have blurred past, the buzz in my head mellowing. One minute we’re sharp and snappy, tossing jokes back and forth like it’s a game. Then he’ll throw something out of left field — blunt, teasing, a little too pointed — and I never know if I’m supposed to laugh or defend myself. It’s unpredictable. 

“I think I’ve cracked the system,” he announces, leaning back against the kitchen island, the hem of his navy t-shirt grazing a pan handle on the stove. “Grocery stores put the milk in the back just to make us walk past all the impulse snacks.” He says it with full confidence — then jolts forward at the last second, nearly clipping the pan or sending it crashing to the floor.

I bite down on a chuckle, because he’s still funny. That comment made ten minutes ago resurfaces my brain about traffic — how if cars were invisible it would just look like a pack of heads bulldozing forward down the street. Who even thinks of stuff like that? The picture of rows of bald heads jammed into invisible drivers' seats, barreling down the highway flashes in my mind and I start cracking up all over again. 

He notices immediately, tilting his head at me like I’ve completely lost it. “What are you laughing about?” he asks.

I try to cover my mouth, shake my head. “It’s that stupid joke you made ten minutes ago.” And as I’m saying it, I realize I need to calm myself down — if I keep laughing like this, I’m about two seconds away from getting the hiccups, just like in high school. 

He doesn’t look away from me. He just stands there, watching me laugh, half-endearing, half-flattered, like he secretly likes it. It reminds me of that Justin Bieber meme where he says, “I like your laugh. Ha ha ha.” That same look — like he’s amused, but also pleased he put it there.

My stomach cramps from laughing, and I have to hold them. I take a deep breath, then another, the air leaving me in little bursts that ripple against his shirt. Standing there, I realize I haven’t laughed like this in a long, long time.

Once I finally catch my breath — holding my sides, I notice how light I feel. He still has it, that same effortless way of making me feel younger. But then my throat goes dry. It’s not the fluttery dryness of a high school crush, but sharper, heavier, like the past folding itself over the present. And before I could process it, the thought slammed into me, fast. Holy shit. I still love him.

I want to spew it right there, raw and graceless, just to get the damn thing out of me.

“Tyler” I say. Wait. Holy shit, I can’t say that. I shouldn’t say anything.

“Yeah?” His eyebrow lifts slightly, that familiar half-smile curling at the corner of his mouth like he’s already amused by whatever I’m about to say.

Panic claws up my throat. My heart lurches like I’ve just stepped off a ledge, and the words that were about to hurl themselves out get yanked back at the last second. I force a laugh instead, thin and wobbly, scrambling for something safer. Backpedaling so hard I can feel the heat in my face.

“I… I really, really liked you in high school.”

His grin is immediate, wide and almost boyish, like I’ve just confirmed something he always suspected. “Yeah?” he says, leaning forward just a little, bending his knee as it brushes lightly against my leg.

Everything inside me splits in two. Part of me hurts holding back. But then the other part feels sharp and bitter, reminding me of all the times I shoved him out of my life, even blocked him. It’s like love and hate keep tripping over each other, treading the same fine line. I want him to know. 

I shake my head, my eyes locked on his. “No, I mean… I really, really, really liked you.”

Something changes in his expression then. It’s not shock — it’s softer. “Yeah,” he says again, slower this time. He nods once, almost like he’s been waiting for me to say it. “I know.”  

We’re less than a breath apart, our lips hovering in that charged space where it would take nothing — just a tilt, just a second — for them to meet. I can feel the warmth of his breath slipping out of his nose, brushing against my skin. For a split second I want to just finish my thought, to unload the thing.  

His finger digs into my hip bone, grounding me there, while he waits. But the words stay stuck, because all I can think about is love letter girl — and how easily feelings can look like madness when they’re spoken out loud.

I instinctively glance down at the kitchen tile. From the corner of my eye, even with my hair falling forward, I can see him lowering his head, trying to catch my gaze. He leans down, searching for me, but he can’t quite meet my eyes because I’m hiding. 

By the time we finally drift to his room, both of us are drunk enough that our heads hit the pillow and the room tilts. Everything comes in waves. I’m thinking about this reality — our reality now, post-college — yet my brain won’t stop flickering through a hundred others. One moment I feel floaty, the next I’m too aware of every thought crashing around in my head. Different versions of us play out in flashes: Ithaca, Boston, Love Letter Girl, the stupid haiku in high school. 

Walking into his house tonight, I really thought he’d feel different. He’s older, sure, but he’s exactly the same in the way he makes me feel. The same guy who could stop me in my tracks with some offhand question about politics or the world, then pivot to health, science, random facts about how the body works. The same guy who’d pull out a book or go off on a tangent about philosophy, only to undercut it with that dark, self-deprecating humor that made him feel more real, more humble.

And okay, if he’s the same guy now and makes me feel the same way he did six years ago, what happens when he’s back in Ithaca finishing his internship and I’m back in Boston and starting my job — six hours apart? If every reality folds into the same truth, then maybe that truth is this: no matter what version of us there is, I’ll still love him. But love doesn’t change the distance. And love alone doesn’t mean I can.

Each image flares, burns out, then blurs into the next until they’re all stacked on top of each other. And before I can stop myself, the words tumble out.

“We can’t date.”

A rough groan slips out of him from the sheets, somewhere between frustration and disbelief, his eyes squeezing shut like he can’t even deal with me. His head lolls toward me, sluggish with sleep, voice low but insistent, like he’s too tired to argue but too curious to drop it. 

“Why not?” 

“Because you’re going to Ithaca, and I’m going to Boston. It wouldn’t work.”

“Then come to Ithaca.”  

I snap my head toward him, blinking hard, my hair whipping close enough to almost smack him in the face. “No. Do you hear how crazy that sounds?” He exhales through his nose, blowing the strands back at me. 

“Why is it crazy?” he asks, his voice light, almost childlike, but the glint in his eyes gives him away. He’s not clueless. He’s baiting me. 

“Because I have work there. My family is moving there. My friends are there. It’s not realistic.” 

He shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips.  “Okay.” His voice cracks, lids looking heavy. “Then what do you want?”

I pause, roll my eyes, and flop back onto my side, staring out his window. What comes out instead is softer, smaller: “Well I don’t want you to just never talk to me again.”

He wraps his arm around me, pulling me close until our legs are tangled. His hand finds my hip again, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles against my skin. “I said I’ll come visit you,” he whispers.  

My heart is hammering like it wants to break through bone, and the words are right there. I love you. I open my mouth, taking in a big breath of air before I can speak. He catches me.

“What is it?”  

“Nothing,” I whisper, my voice shaking slightly.

“Say it,” he murmurs through his teeth — his tone low, insistent. 

I shake my head, swallowing hard. “No. It’s nothing.”

“You’re lying,” he says, his hand tightening on my side. “Just say it. I don’t even know what the hell correct thinking is anymore.”

That cracks me, just a little. It's like he’s admitting something raw, something real about himself. And for a second, it almost breaks the dam. But what if all I get in return is a soft thank you before he disappears? I can’t risk six years of knowing him ending up like that Love letter girl.   

So I still smother it. “Never mind,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut, willing myself into sleep. “I’m not going to tell you.” 

He exhales, frustrated. “You’re impossible, Bird Girl.”