The spring of 2007 was a long semester for me. I made my first documentary (on Dance Dance Revolution), got drunk and passed out for the first time, and… broke up with my boyfriend of three years. Right after he visited me in New York over spring break. On the phone. Through a voicemail.

I know the delivery was cowardly, but really, the relationship didn’t deserve more than that, although the boy might have. The three years were essentially two best friends making out and going to movies a lot. The breakup should have happened long before it did, because I realized just a few months into the relationship that kissing him kind of made me want to cringe. I was always trying to come up with reasons for why he shouldn’t come over to “hang out,” failing, and during my hours wasted on the couch with him clinging to me, I wished that I could be doing something more productive. Like line dancing, or watching Degrassi reruns. I began to think something was wrong with me. I was the one that pursued him in the beginning. I knew from prior experiences that I was not a lesbian and did in fact like boys. So why was I pretending to fall asleep early every night so that he would go home and I’d have time to myself?

We were still going to be friends though, because that’s what we did best. We had great conversations and made each other laugh. He really wasn’t as bitter as I thought he’d be when he called me after the voicemail. In fact, he said he’d had similar feelings for a while. So I was like, Cool, I don’t have to kill myself from the guilt now. Because he’s not going to kill himself. I’d thought this might be the case, because I always had this inner fear that he loved me, even though I never fell in love with him.

The other clue that the relationship shouldn’t have been as epic as it turned out to be was that after three years, neither of us ever said “I love you” to the other. I guess I was waiting for him to say it first, though I’m not sure how I would’ve responded. I probably would’ve just stared at him and continued to suck the honey mustard off of my club sandwich, because I don’t like to lie. I cared about him, but love just never came into the equation.

After we broke up, we still talked on the phone everyday. Old routines die hard, I suppose. I was hit on by a few guys in the immediate aftermath, but I’d already sworn an oath that the following summer would be spent with my sister and her family, with no distractions or heartaches related to boys. I was going to enjoy my singleosity, whether I liked it or not.

Little did I know, my sister herself had different plans for me.

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