It used to be scary realizing I was falling in love with someone who did not wear emotions on her face. The girl everyone had a crush on. Anywhere we went, she always got a drink for free. Compliments flew her way. She would just dismiss it all with a smirk on her face.

The first night we met, two girls flirted with her before I even got her name. 

It was May 16th, 2025. The deciding semifinal game between the New York Knicks and the Boston Celtics. You could feel the excitement rise from the hot summer concrete. A random sports bar in Midtown Manhattan. We were there because of mutual friends. The atmosphere was overwhelming, so I didn’t really glance her way at first, but I lucidly remember noticing how she put her brown, curly hair down from her slick-back ponytail. I remember thinking how beautiful her hair shaped her face. 

“Do you have a cigarette?” she asked me as we walked to the third location of the night. 

I pulled my Marlboro reds from the back pocket of my black jorts, lit a cigarette up—with the “Nailed it” lighter that a BDSM performer gifted me at Victoria De Angelis first dj tour—and gave it off to her. On my other hand I carried my red flats, as my blistered bare feet walked through the clean New York City streets. As it commonly occurs on a Friday night, we ended up at a $3 tequila shots bar. Later that night, I kissed her for the first time. 

It is crazy to think that is the same girl whose head is currently laying on my chest. The subtle November sun invades the window. It is still too early to turn the heater on, but there are at least three blankets covering us. We are taking part in our morning tradition of playing the New York Times games before getting out of bed—the Wordle word was grave.

As every morning, she spends exactly 11 minutes doing her hair in the bathroom. Then she makes two instant coffees, while I get ready for the day. We eat breakfast—more often than not, toasted everything bagels with cream cheese—and drink ice lattes while we watch “How I Met Your Mother.” That concludes our slow morning ritual. She kisses me goodbye, and begins her daily commute at precisely 8:40 am.

She walks through Lexington avenue. Four blocks up, until she reaches 53rd street. Her airpods are always blasting country songs. She goes down to the E Train platform and takes the subway uptown, for two stops. At 7th Avenue she transfers to the B/D train. She leaves it at Columbus Circle and walks until she reaches 11th avenue. She would be just in time for her 9:20 am class, but there is always someone in the hall that she just must talk to—inevitably making her 10 minutes late.

John Jay College of Criminal Justice is a public liberal arts college in the west side of Manhattan, ranked nationally for its criminal justice, forensic psychology, and public policy programs. The best education if when you were a 14 year old girl going through a global pandemic you noticed, “all the people that were dying and no one gave a fuck about,” because everyone was ignorant and listening to the, “policy makers in South Carolina, who are uneducated, old, men.”

Two years later, when attending high school she joined the Youth and Government club because her friends were a part of it. One of the projects required them to come up with a bill to present to the State House. Her first thought was “that is a lot of work for a club I only joined for shits and giggles,” but she stuck with it, and developed a bill regarding education. When she got up on stage and presented, it made her realize how interested she was in the topic and the importance of it. The school board was able to enforce her proposal in the system and individualized the guidance counselors depending on the student needs. (Essentially separating the education from the mental health issues, reducing the stress from students and teachers. By making the sessions focused on specific needs, they encourage students to seek help and feel more comfortable.)

“It was good for me to see that—it was impactful to make a change with only my words,” she said when recounting her decision to get a degree in political sciences.

I arrive to campus at 12:05 pm, to meet for her three-hour break, with a Pop-Up Bagels bag in hand. Every Thursday, Pop-Up Bagels releases a limited edition butter and cream cheese flavour. We taste and rank them all—today is “Pickle de Gallo.” We walk to central park and sit on the rocks in front of the baseball field to eat our bagels. I rate the flavour 7th on our list, she rates it 11th. Park sitting season is definitely over, but we are stubborn to contain a little bit of summer with us. To play over the memory of those early romance days, where we would sit under the sun for hours, enchanted by every new thing we learnt about the other. 

We would spend every day touring any corner of the city together. Illustrating our personal version of New York. From the bar I stop by just to get the tightest hug from the bouncer, whose name I do not know but warmingly call “Fake Bruno.” To the karaoke place where everyone believes she is a nepo baby. Inviting each other to our favourite dusty corners and our best kept secret for a late-night sweet treat. 

We would spend every night wrapped in each other's arms. Secluded from the outside world. Binge watching “New Girl,” or following the WNBA—I am still not over the New York Liberty getting eliminated after the first round of playoffs. We would try to act cool, and pretend we weren’t completely obsessed with each other. I would say we “didn’t need a label,” she would say “she didn’t want to move too fast,” we would both constantly talk about other girls. All while sharing a twin-size mattress for the 11th night in a row.

We finish class at almost 6 pm, and meet at a shitty, midtown, punk bar. Another one of those bars that serve $3 shots—or our personal favorite: $6 for a beer and a shot. Last time we were in this bar we convinced a drunk man we were getting married this winter—after only nine months of dating. He proceeded to bombard us with a list of questions to test if we were ready for that commitment, until his friend took him away.

“Have you met each other's families? Who is going to keep the house clean? Are you a dog or a cat person? Have you peed in front of each other?” 

There are always intriguing personalities at this bar. Today however, two of her friends join us, Dakota and Camille. We all get a drink, and then Camille buys a round of shots. We are seating in the deepest corner of the bar—almost next to the bathrooms. We put two crooked tables together and pull a couple of loose chairs. The party next to us is building a pyramid out of empty bud light cans. 

I am trying to get her friend's perspective of her character. I keep asking for her strengths and weaknesses, but every weakness they say just sounds like a disguised strength. The only thing they can come up with is, “She is so nonchalant, she would steal the girl I am trying to talk to.” I roll my eyes with exaggeration, and turn my head to my girlfriend to find her doing the same.

The night continues in a mix of our favorite stories of her. The time she rescued a cat and ended up accidentally adopting nine. The time she and Camille did karaoke with Irish people—forever binding the song “Drinking Problems” to them. How she is always listening, “I am a good listener because I am very judgemental,” she would say. The time she and Dakota sneaked into a Dom Dolla concert. How she is always protective of her friends. Like when she convinced the whole bar her grandfather was a famous country singer. 

It all happened last year when Dakota, Camille, and her were out for the night: their go-to Irish pub, 90% full of underaged NYU students, graffiti everywhere, and a jukebox in the corner. A bar where they normally give fake names to guys that come talk to them, “because we usually just have fun and we do not want to entertain it further—and if we do it, it is always with fake information because it is funny.” They have this thing where they tell people that her grandpa is, the famous country singer, George Straigh—even though she is from South Carolina, in that universe she is Texan born and raised.

“One time, we had a few too many, and Dakota tried doing it to a guy that was talking to me. She got the names confused and said ‘Her Grandpa is George Wallen!’ She got Morgan Wallen and George Straight mixed up. Somehow we still managed to gaslight the man into thinking that was a real artist. I ended up singing random country songs that I made up in my head, even though George Wallace does not exist. That is how I became a nepo baby for the night.”

After more rounds that we could count, we desperately crave nacho fries. We make our way to the only establishment open around us: Taco Bell. For five whole minutes there is silence while everyone devours their food. The speakers are playing the most random playlist mix ever created, at a volume no fast food chain should ever be allowed to—they are practically screaming the lyrics to us. “Say You Won't Let Go” by James Arthur suddenly starts playing—I meant it when I said the most random playlist mix ever. Jokingly she stretches out her hand and asks me to dance. I laugh and say, “well of course!” We both know neither of us is being serious, so it might just be the alcohol or the atmosphere, but we stand right-up and begin to move with each other. That’s how I end  my day, slow dancing with the most caring nonchalant girl, at an empty Taco Bell in Midtown Manhattan.