Do you believe in true love? Do you know what you mean by that? I’ve come to believe that hopeless romantics actually fall into two camps: circumstantialists and anti–circumstantialists. For a circumstantialist, a big enough obstacle is a sign something is not meant to be. Meanwhile, an anti–circumstantialist is the “love will prevail” type, the one who believes there is no “wrong time” for the right person.
Before spring break, I fell firmly in the latter camp. Now, I’m not so sure.
If you follow me on the app formerly known as Twitter, you probably saw me “posting through it.” On March 10 at 3:36 p.m. PST, I wrote, “love is a triumph of attraction over circumstance.” Then, a follow–up: “all my homies hate circumstance.” I had texted a man—we’ll call him Blake—asking if he wanted to see each other one last time before I finally left the West Coast for good. My flight was scheduled for 7:30 a.m. the next morning. Blake didn’t text me back that day. He still hasn’t.
We met for the first time on a Friday night. I was in [REDACTED CITY] visiting friends, one of whom worked with him at [REDACTED TECH COMPANY]. My first impressions: really cute smile, taller than I expected, has those sort of Cro–Magnon features that I tend to go for. There was chest hair poking out of the top of his shirt, which was a gay shirt (corduroy and color–blocked) but wasn’t as gay as mine (purple and black vertical stripes, nautical collar).
Blake graduated from Penn last year, but we never officially met. The plan was to go out clubbing with some other people from his department and, at first, I did a good job of dividing my conversation equally between everyone. But once we were in line, the drinks started hitting and I only wanted to pay attention to Blake. I don’t remember how long we waited or exactly what we talked about—antitrust laws, I think—but I remember the feeling of his stubble against my cheek as he leaned into my face, closer than he needed to.
We drank more, danced in a circle, and once enough hormones and alcohol had built up in my bloodstream, I worked up the courage to ask him for a kiss. “I’m in front of my coworkers,” he astutely reminded me, “but I’m not opposed to it.”
That same Friday, Ariana Grande released her seventh album, Eternal Sunshine. The title comes from the 2004 Jim Carrey/Michel Gondry movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, which is about two lovers who erase their memories of each other, but it’s really about Kate Winslet and her Agent Orange hair. It’s an anti–circumstantialist bible, built on the conceit that not even targeted amnesia can stop these people from finding each other again.
But the whole weekend had me thinking about another movie: Richard Linklater’s Before Sunrise. Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy meet in Vienna for 24 hours, maybe fall in love, maybe fuck, and then they leave. Ignoring the sequels, it’s the circumstantialist to Eternal Sunshine’s anti–circumstantialist; Delpy and Hawke could be perfect for each other now, but what if it’s only for now?
We had dinner plans the next night at an Italian restaurant: me, my friends, Blake, and his roommate. Then, we switched locations to a wine bar that did $15 pour–overs. Blake and I sat across from each other, and the whole time I couldn’t focus on anything except how close our fingers were resting on the table. I wrote a message in my Notes app:
“Need to sit on my hands lest I reach out and try to entwine my hands with [Blake]’s hands.”
An hour later, and we were on his couch—me sitting like Jacob Elordi in that one photo, him talking about his Penn situationships. At a certain point my friends left. I asked him if I should leave. He told me I didn’t have to right away. Then we were standing around Blake’s kitchen table, unpacking our family traumas when—disaster! The cheese sauce and rosé in his guts turned against him, but before I left he insisted I take his number and text when I got home.
I did, and then we kept texting.
Him: “You are lovely company :)”
Me: “I do try”
“And I promise I’m not always such an oversharer”
Him: “I was quite fascinated by your stories”
“Definitely did not bore me once”
…
Him: “I can’t believe we never met at Penn!”
I was listening to Eternal Sunshine. To coincide with the release of the album, Ariana shared a Gondry–inspired video for “we can’t be friends (wait for your love).” The song immediately drew comparisons to Robyn’s “Dancing On My Own,” mostly on social media but also in places like Pitchfork.
Except there’s a crucial difference: “Dancing On My Own” is Robyn triumphant in spite of; she’ll keep dancing with herself until the right person comes around. Her voice has that typically Northern European resilience (see also: Björk’s “I thought I could organize freedom / How Scandinavian of me!”)
Ariana, though, is totally capitulant. She’ll “wait for your love,” and she sounds like it. Breathy, ecstatic, overcome. “I don't wanna tiptoe, but I don't wanna hide / But I don't wanna feed this monstrous fire / Just wanna let this story die / And I’ll be alright.” Like Ari, the waiting doesn’t scare me, but waiting ad infinitum does.
Maybe I misread the signs. Maybe it’s Blake’s M.O. to say these things when he’s drunk and regret them the morning after. I could’ve interpreted his messages one way (let’s make the most of the time we have), when it could’ve been interpreted another, slightly different way (if only we had more time … ). If this is a sign from the universe, then I’m either an anti–circumstantialist in search of someone else who’ll say “fuck it,” or it’s time to join the other team.
One more possibility, though: What if I was right? What if he’s reading this right now, waiting for my forgiveness, or for me to say this door isn’t totally closed? If you are, here’s what I can say:
I’ll wait, too. But not forever.
