In Which A Boy I Love Loves Someone Else
Did you know if you dream about him five nights in a row, your heart becomes a time machine?
By 
Ari Eastman
Eastman
DANIELLA URDINLAIZ
A boy I love loves someone else.
And I know I should stop calling him Boy,
should stop clinging to our adolescent life – like, maybe,
if I think about it enough, I can somehow breathe it back into existence.
Did you know if you dream about him five nights in a row, your heart becomes a time machine?
You will try to take his mouth in yours,
wake up in his mother’s house and make bagels
in the morning.
I won’t rush this time.
Won’t make him question if I want to be there.
His ache isn’t louder. I mean, yes, I know it was louder
but that didn’t mean mine wasn’t powerful,
didn’t mean I didn’t love him just as much.
I am sorry he mistook introversion
for leaving.
I am sorry he mistook my distended belly
for unhappiness with him.
I am sorry he mistook my broken body
for a body that wanted someone else.
I just didn’t know I had allergies.
There is nothing deeper.
And I am sorry I got better after we split.
And I am sorry for how that looked.
And I am sorry for the photos and the dancing and the college life that seemed
instantly better after our goodbye.
That’s not what it was.
A boy I love loves someone else.
He smiles at me across a white table.
We are quiet when our fingers touch.
Still, after all this time,
the love never stopped.
But a boy I love loves someone else.
There is no time machine.
There is no us. 
