This is a reply to an email I received from my high school boyfriend, my First Love. I don’t know how much context you need to understand what I am saying, but I will try to fill in the most glaring gap. It is subsequently also the most embarrassing gap: Max and I started to see each other under the guise of trying to read Infinite Jest together. Before you judge me too hard, I was seventeen and had never talked to a boy outside of school before, let alone one I had a big crush on. So, when we were trying to find ways to stay talking over the summer and he suggested we read Infinite Jest, I was all in. Also, David Foster Wallace has his merits. Would I do it now? No. Absolutely not. (Maybe) (I’m kidding) (Maybe)

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Max,

When my friend asked if I was surprised that you sent me such a lovely and thoughtful email, I had to be honest and say no. I was not surprised at all. Nor was I surprised that you’ve once again forced me to think in ways I’m not used to. This is an extremely positive thing.

Your email has come to me in a sort of strange time. It feels like an event, in a series of events, that are continually showing me how much I’ve grown. While I’m sure Watchung Reservation is absolutely stunning this time of year, I’m finding a pleasantness to being at Vassar in the fall. The last time I was here in the fall was my sophomore year, which, for a myriad of reasons, was absolutely heinous. But, as you know, things change over time! I read your email today and then watched Interstellar. I teared up for both. Ok, I cried three separate times during Interstellar, but we’re trying to build parallels here.

I’m happy to hear you’re in Scotch Plains. That place is weird. I don’t love being home these days, but I don’t mind it in the way that I used to. I’m jealous your parents have painted your walls. My room still looks the same as it did in high school. It’s terrifying. We also have a dog now. It’s crazy. I love her. I think I’m an animal person now. The world is ending. The climate apocalypse is coming. We’re all doomed and I love dogs.

I thought about Infinite Jest a lot this summer because it was on the bookshelf next to my bed. I woke up looking at Infinite Jest. I thought about picking it up, but I really couldn’t bring myself to do it. I like the memories I have tied to it too much to make new ones. Also, if I read it, my douche levels would go up like 15% and god knows I don’t need that. I did read The Goldfinch though, which felt like a massive book that could be boasted about in lieu of Infinite Jest. Honestly, it was just ok, but I didn’t have anything else to do but read this summer. Well, I did, but doesn’t it sound more mysterious if I say I didn’t?

Part of why your email falls into a weird series of events is its mention of love. Like any human (or rather, 21-year-old woman), it is a concept that infatuates me to the point of depression. First, I think it is important to mention that I am so happy that you are in love again. Love is beautiful and something to be enjoyed in bounty. The more of it in a life the better. I’m speaking from a short existence here, but based off what I know and have recently learned from Interstellar, it’s true. Unfortunately, I’m not sure how your talking to me about love would go. I think I want to say yes, but I may not be able to handle it. This isn’t because of you or who you are to me now, but rather my own context to this situation. I don’t think I’ve been as lucky as you with romantic love since our departure from each other.

Every day, I get to spend time with people I love. I am lucky that I have had so many opportunities to learn how to have friendships in new places and with new people. I also have had an insane journey of self, which I can only feel confident describing as love. I have gone low and pulled myself out while learning how to create pockets of happiness for myself. This sounds extreme because it is. I have really learned to create a philosophy for myself.

Ok, now with all that being said, please do not pull out your tiny violin for this next part. The romance part has been bleak. I have found myself in situations where I do not recognize myself. I have been hurt. I have accepted treatment that I know I do not deserve. I have been rejected. I have told one other person that I love them. I traveled across the world to see them. Yet, with some distance from that experience, I am not sure what to call it.

On a three-day camping trip I took in New Zealand, I had two conversations that I think will define the course of my next few years. The first was about why we’re alive (the simplest answer is to have fun). The second is how we define love. Love can be built and fostered over long period of times; it can be hard and tedious and something that takes time. Like building a house. It can be exciting and overwhelming. It can bubble and grow in pressure until it is released. It can also be spontaneous. And short. And scary. Like building a tent in the dark. Love can be unquantifiable and bizarre. It is this short love that I am interested in. Is short love real? If so, I think I have experienced it, but my lack of definition defies my ability to be sure.

Just a few days before your email came to me, I decided to give up. Just accept that romantic love was something that was not in the cards for me at the moment. Your email served as a beautiful reminder that at one point someone did care for me so deeply. That I was once someone who was on the top of someone’s mind. (You were absolutely on my mind too, don’t worry, Scotch Plains is also just a map of us in my head.) With that being said, I think I’ve written myself to a conclusion. Talk to me about love. What a unique experience to hear your insights. Who else gets to talk to the person they first learned about love with in such a way? Just be gentle with me. I’m sensitive.