At first, I had trouble dating a girl who was recovering from an eating disorder. I couldn’t get by the fact that I may not ever be able to treat her to a nice dinner because she simply could not go out. I hated sitting by and watching her as she ignored the compliments I gave her and constantly commented on how she wished to look like “that girl”, or “her over there”. And it used to bother me that there were so many things she just couldn’t eat.
Then I realized that eating out wasn’t important in a relationship like ours. What was important was our meals together at home, and how I knew exactly what to make her every night. How we sat together at the beginning of each week and spent at most an hour at a time planning the meals we would share. How appreciative she looked when I refused to sit in silence at the table to keep her from focusing on the calories that entered her body. 
I almost enjoyed that I knew exactly what she couldn’t eat, and I soon got past the fact that we might not ever be able to order pizza from domino’s on a Friday night while we watched Harry Potter in the living room. All I cared about eventually was helping her, and that was what a relationship should be like.
I loved her so much that I could stand the nights where she stood in front of the mirror and cried, and it would tear my heart to pieces when she would ask me why I could ever love someone that looked like her. I would hold her, I wouldn’t tell her she was beautiful more than once or twice, and that was all. I trusted her and she I enough that we could sit together every night and she could tell me whether or not she had thrown up her lunch, even if I already knew because I was so scared that I watched her after every meal. Even if I knew, though, I never stopped her, because they were her battles, and I knew that no matter how much it hurt, me fighting them for her wouldn’t help.
Soon enough though, I saw that she became more confident. Her trips to the restroom following meals became fewer until I could relax, knowing that there was a good chance she was safe. There were less times when she looked at the mirror and pinched fat that was actually only skin. Finally, she asked me to take her out for dinner. Finally, we ordered domino’s on a Friday night and watched Harry Potter.

And that my friends, that’s what love is.


I think the most magical thing in the world is typing a letter to a crush, sending it...and then simultaeously having two or three new letters pop up with your freshly sent letter.

In that exact moment, someone else felt compelled to type about love, rejection, healing, or simply words with meaning. And they are sitting half way across the world feeling just like you. Maybe they're sitting with a cup of hot tea and the sunrise. But it's just a beautiful thought.

We are NEVER alone.

In the parking lot, he asked us who he was following to the party. 

Like I remembered him, dark hair all over the place and a ridiculous green visor jammed crookedly on his head.

Eyes scrunched up as he laughed. 

Cold air rushing out of his mouth like a smoke tendril.

He looked at me with deep brown eyes, and for a second there I thought I saw a flicker of recognition.

I smiled.

Here's hoping it reminded him of another cold night, when I was the girl making him laugh the most. 

I want to say that I thought there was zero chance in hell that line would work.

I delivered you some cookies.

"So, cookies in exchange for a quick make-out, right?"

After pretending to climb in through the window like a goof you actually got in the car with me, asked how I was doing, etc. Then the awkward pause.

I stared at you.

You stared at me.


I stared at you.


You stared at me.

Leaned in and kissed me. I keep forgetting you tilt left.

"That was too quick, though."

And so we made out again, unlike before. Maybe when people kiss for the first time they're self-conscious about it. Maybe that's why this time you were clearly into it. I would describe the other two times as precise. Like cautious. I would describe this time as makin' out. To I Fink U Freeky by Die Antwoord. "JUMP MOTHERF*CKER JUMP MOTHERF*CKER JUMP"

My god, I can't believe that line worked.

"Okay I'll let you get back to studying now..."

I grabbed your shirt and pulled you in for one more and you turned it into a goodnight kiss. It was kind of sweet.

The "muah" noise you made. Oh god. Hey, I think you like me.

I think you might actually like me a little bit because of the way you stared back at me, all smiles. And that noise.

And because of the way we get high and play red hands and poke each other and you put me in a headlock.

That's all I want. Seriously if things can just stay like this...

The world is ugly...but you're beautiful to me.

Let's play a game called, "ask me out."

Being the generous person that I am, I'll allow you to go first.

She's so optimistic. That confidence, brightening smile and them big brown shiny eyes with long eyelashes though.


I feel like I've written you a letter every day. Not on here, nor even written it down anywhere.

I just feel like as much as you're on my mind and I go over everything that I've wanted to tell you, I feel like it's become a series of short letters. They're all addressed to you.

I'm about to talk crazy. Here goes.

Maybe it was some god

or the cosmos

or a red string on my finger

or intuition

but something tugged on my soul and whispered in my ear:

That's him.

We fell in love in 5 weeks.

It sounds like some dumb teen novel; clueless American falls hard for  chiseled Spaniard against the backdrop of a beautiful deepwoods Minnesotan summer camp. 

And it was a dumb teen novel, with all the sleepless nights watching meteors fall and holding hands in secret during staff meetings and sneaking out to the hidden lake during activities and you whispering Spanish love poems and then desperately trying to translate them even though I speak Spanish enough to know every word.

But teen novels don't end with you moving back to Spain. And teen novels don't end with you telling me "you're sorry" that we "just grew apart."

And teen novels don't end with me lying and telling you that I feel the distance too and then crying and crying.

Teen novels bridge the impossible gaps.

We didn't.