Portal Jumping

Every time I open the fridge, there it is. The last unfinished smoothie I made her. There was nothing special about what went into it (mango, mixed berries, spinach, oat milk), but she loved them.

It sits there with the metal straw in it, pulp stains from her mouth on the tip. It’s been four days and I’ve convinced myself it’s still fresh, with a deepening purply color that you could argue either way.

I can’t help but call her. The moment she picks up, I’m already stream-of-conscious wailing. “What am I supposed to do with the photos of us on the fridge? We look so good in them.”

She laughs and it gives me permission to as well.

She gently reminds me that before each of these photos were taken, we were in conflict. Oh, right. All I see are two glowing faces, heads tipped towards each other with smug grins.

I close my eyes and feel my mind hover in a liminal space between portals. Different memories and past realities.

I’m back in her old 300 sq. ft. studio apartment, the one with no kitchen. We started here. I’m unemployed, she’s a broke grad student, and together, we relish life’s more simple joys: movie nights at home, evening walks through the park, a coveted takeout meal from time to time.

I’m back in my own bungalow, with her lying next to me in bed, daylight streaming in as we stare into each other’s eyes. We started here, too. Her energy is as tied to this space as my own. The painted art she made me, the knick-knacks, and the handwritten cards to breathe a soft touch into the minimal decor I adhere to.

And now I’m back to the morning the breakup happened, not even a week ago.

It was in the middle of an unprecedented 108 degree heatwave in Los Angeles. To escape the sun, we wandered to the farmer’s market right when it opened, picked fruit, and then read aloud to each other in the cool safety of my living room. I made her a smoothie. It was the sweetest of mornings.

In the afternoon, she turns to me and asks, “How are you feeling about our relationship?”

This is a very normal question for her. As a therapist and a highly attuned individual, she craves emotional intimacy and deep connection.

In this particular moment, though, I am aloof and nonchalant. I’m not sure why. Sometimes I blame it on being a heady, existential, depressed Aquarius. But mostly as an avoidant person, I subconsciously create distance, flex my independence when feeling remotely boxed in. I don’t even realize the impact of what I’m saying until it’s out.

“Yeah, I feel good about us. This was a nice weekend. But you know, I’m always gonna have that lingering uncertainty about us, so I’m guess I’ll keep working on that.”

Looking at her face, I immediately know nothing is going to be the same. Her expression goes from pain and hurt to anger and disbelief.

“I... I can’t keep doing this. If you aren’t certain about me, then we can’t be together.”

This has been our dance for the two-and-a-half years we’ve been together. After some cycles of conflict, I couldn’t maintain the full confidence that I know, deep in my bones, she’s my person in this life. On the other hand, she feels with clarity that I am hers. We’ve even had arguments about the word “forever” and my hesitancy towards saying it. I needed more evidence and she needed more faith.

“I want someone who knows they want to be with me, in good and in bad.” She is sobbing now, the heat of frustration rendering me frozen. Because she’s right.

“OK,” I hear myself say measuredly this time,“I can’t get there right now.” Silence.

She blinks. Nods. Understood.

It’s surreal, like a ship sinking in still waters. She silently roams my house packing up her belongings. Cleans out her designated underwear drawer, pulls down her clothes from my closet. Takes out the vegetables and fruits purchased at the farmer’s market a few hours prior. We were just there, holding sweaty hands.

Did I mention there’s an unprecedented heatwave outside?

I follow her like a ghost. As she moves through each room, my brain is trying to reason with me, convince myself this will blow over and we’ll make up and it’ll all be fine.

But I don’t stop her.

I help bring bags upon bags to her car. It’s 7pm Sunday evening and the hot air is creating mirages on the street. We hug, loosely. She asks for no contact. I stand in the middle of the street, the cement burning through the soles of my sandals, as I watch her drive off.

I’m floating through portals, swimming through shared breakfasts and endless laughter and warm cuddles, until I enter my house and close the door. The sudden emptiness of this new reality cripples me to my knees. I fall onto the kitchen floor (her feet were just here!) and curl into fetal position.

We are together, and now we aren’t. We were together, and now we aren’t.

The smoothie, the heat, her body.

We were, we are, we were, we aren’t.

I can’t even envision her unloading things into her new apartment because I’ve only been there once. She moved into a new apartment with a new roommate just last week. It wasn’t ideal, as she wanted to move in with me but I wasn’t ready yet. There were moments I could see it so clearly, us making meals half-naked and the pure joy of returning home after being apart. And other times, when we were in conflict, I couldn’t see past tomorrow.

I’m now cleaning out the smoothie cup with her on the phone. It’s been four days since I made it for her. She’s encouraging me to also take down the photos of us on the fridge. Put them somewhere I can’t see them, until this heartache eases. My fridge is now just planet magnets holding up air.

But goddamn am I happy we’re in contact. While I was lying on my kitchen floor that Sunday evening, she called. The no-contact rule had melted. It was something she had been used to, that black-and-white resolve, having dated cishet men before me. And now she’s unsure if that applies to us. This was her first queer relationship and the expansiveness of what our love can be, and transforming it into friendship, is something she’s curious about.

We go over boundaries and expectations, what feels good and what doesn’t. No sex, no touching minus hugs. Leaning on each other for emotional support and emergencies is still fine. The frequency of us talking- we like most days for now, but know that will eventually change. That gives me anticipatory heart palpitations, the incoming loss of proximity and access and closeness.

The week trudges to Friday, when she and I decided to hang out, as friends. It follows the similar pattern of our dates: I pick her up, we go to a movie, and then to dinner.

This time, though, I’m already feeling the natural distance between us creep in. It sends me lurching for connection. “What if...” “If I could...” “Would it have made a difference...” I share that my sadness has been devastating. Who are my people, what are my hobbies, who am I?

She asks me if I masked my loneliness in life by hanging out with her. It stumps me because it’s partially true.

She then asks me what I’m looking for in my next relationship, and I well up. Attributes I found in her: deeply kind, thoughtful, expressive, playful. I ask her the same and once again, realize it’s beyond what I can offer: someone who is ready for a lifelong commitment and on the same emotional wavelength. “And...,” she takes a pause, “someone who likes themselves.”

Gut punch. She grabs my hand. “It just made things hard sometimes, when you would take it out on me.”

As difficult as it is to hear this, I know I’ve grown so much in this relationship because I don’t pull my hand away.

We go back to her apartment for a platonic sleepover. I’m still getting used to this new place. Where things are. How there are no traces of me since she hasn’t fully unpacked. So much of our relationship was her coming to my place. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere.

We sleep side by side, not touching. I don’t dare to. Until in the middle of the night, she asks me for one cuddle and we intertwine our bodies in such a natural way. We hold still there, breathing deeply, and then instinctively move to polar coasts of the bed.

This morning (it was just today), six days after our breakup, she makes me breakfast in her own kitchen for the first time ever. It was supposed to be that I would get to eat many breakfasts here. It’s bittersweet and after a few bites, I no longer have an appetite. She has a coffee with a friend soon and I’m anxious about our time together winding down. We didn’t plan for anything beyond this moment.

She says this will probably be our last hangout for a while. She needs space for our friendship to really feel different. I get it, I do, but it’s yet another wave of our new reality crashing down. I steady myself.

Another portal jump.

She was the first person I dated after I got top surgery and stepped more into my non-binary identity. I felt so safe with her, and I have to let go of this idea that I won’t be seen like this again. She knows what she wants and what she likes, and directly asks for it. I tend to defer to my partners, and push my own desires aside. I’m an acts-of-service person, a partner who prides themself on doing tasks and helping create ease for others.

She tells me that while this hurts, she’s proud of me for being honest. For both of us.

I’m proud too. And it hurts to be this honest.

We head out the door. This was my second, and maybe last, time in her new space. I’m on the edge of shared time and space together. Finality weighs on me once we reach our cars. I’m hanging onto the last hug, choking back gulps of air, as she whispers over and over in my ear, “You’re going to be OK, you’re going to be OK.”

Home now, I write in the composition book she gave me the day before we broke up. “Make some art,” she then told me on the night we did, before driving away. A mirage at sunset.

I wish I wrote more during our relationship. I wish I wrote at all. Expressed more so I could be understood more, understand myself more. Depression, perfectionism, and social anxiety are one hell of a companion combo.

I met her in the blossoming crisp air of spring two-and-half-years ago, and I’m finally writing again now. It’s this, right here, unfolding. It’s not much but it’s a start.

I am going to be lonely and sad and so many more things I can’t even conceive of yet.

The heatwave is over.

The smoothie cup is clean.

There’s no change without acceptance.