You had asked me what my plans were for New Year’s Eve. You were coy about it, even if you didn’t mean to be. That was just the way you were, you know? Smiling with your eyes, waiting for my answer, knowing that it wouldn’t be of any interest or importance whatsoever in the long run, but doing it anyway. For the sake of what? Conversation? Or maybe it was always part of the plan. That’s something I never totally understood. I told you I wasn’t sure. That I might go get wasted with some of my friends. Nothing exciting. Then you said something sarcastic about what a thrilling evening it would be. Or maybe you were sincere, and just said that sounded fun. I don’t remember. I do remember your eyes. They didn’t just light up, they fizzed and popped like freshly poured champagne. They danced and whirled. We were getting to the reason, the moment that you had been waiting for. The moment before the music of the orchestra finds perfect harmony, or when the ocean swells before crashing back down, the silent satisfaction of a hunter locking their scope on an idle deer. I’m still not quite sure how you did this to life. Made everything feel inevitable, beautiful, and terrifying all at once. Your eyes danced in celebration, but also in mocking. As if to laugh and say: “You really thought you were a match for me?”And when I looked at you, I felt a burning in my chest. Tense, like anger, hot like passion, gripped like stress. It wasn’t until much later that I realized it was possible to love someone and resent them at the same time. I asked you if you had any plans for New Years Eve.  

Months before New Years, I remember the city was orange and red. Not just the leaves falling from the trees, but an ad for an Invisalign on the one train, the lattice pattern of my new wallet I found online after weeks of searching, the neon sign for Chinese food that blared across the street from my apartment at night, a plastic orange jack-o’-lantern that guarded the front steps of school from late September. And, of course, your sneakers. If you were here now, you’d give me an inquisitive frown, brow furrowed, and ask “Which one were those again?” But you know exactly which ones I’m talking about: the Vans, with alternating red, orange, and blue color blocking, the ones you wore to our first day of Statistics 102. And then, you’d give me a knowing smile and say: “Oh yeah! Those ones,” because we both know they were the coolest fucking shoes to ever grace the floors of room 216 Ellisiton Hall. In that windowless room with gray-green carpet, metal desks, and walls of white board covered in binomial distributions, z-scores, bell curves, and functions, I didn’t have a choice, but to be constantly distracted by those amazing shoes two rows ahead of me. During our second class, it was the freckles on the back of your left arm that tore me away from our first unit on statistical surveys. The only thing I learned in that class was that if you connected three of them you’d have an isosceles triangle, and if you had one more in just the right place, you’d have a star. I don’t remember if I told you that, but I swear it’s true. I did the math. 

By our third class, it was becoming a fashion crime that I hadn’t complimented you on your sneakers so I expertly timed packing my bag so that I stood up just as you were passing my desk. You know what happens next, and, honestly, for me it’s a blur. I remember your black coffee getting cold as I started my third cup of tea; blinking, and somehow making it from midtown to Harlem on foot; the way I gasped for breath as we laughed on the subway, tears smudging your eyeliner as we burst out in another round; the way some invisible force would squeeze my heart when your name popped up on my phone; conversations that went so late into the night our words wouldn’t stop but just get slower, and slower, spaced, further, and further apart. And I could be romanticizing, just being sentimental as you know I always am, but I don’t think I was ever bored. No, I know that I was never bored when I was with you. And I think that’s what I miss the most. 

By Halloween, we had made it a ritual to go downtown most Friday and Saturday nights. Starting near campus in your Upper West side apartment around midnight, we would usually find ourselves in one of our friend’s apartments in Greenwich by the morning. Your Halloween costume was spectacular: the dark blue glittery eye makeup that erupted into wings by your eyebrows, a shimmering sequin dress with big oversized sleeves that fell just below the knee, and black high boots. I, of course, have never given two shits about Halloween so I let you fuss over my little black dress, and my hair, until I almost looked cool enough to get into the club we went to that night. Almost. 

Despite what I might have told you in the morning, I remember Halloween very clearly. The floor vibrated. First, with the overwhelming boom of the bass, then with the thump of feet hitting the floor, and finally with the shrill overtone of the songs. There were no words, just the extremities of sound. Strobe lights flashed over the bizarre costumes of the crowd, making it seem as though the wild movement was happening one beat at a time. A hand drunkenly raising a glass. Darkness. A mass of blonde hair with pink streaks flips wildly. Darkness. A face twists in ecstasy. Darkness. Over and over the mass of bodies turned, and danced, and writhed until they were no longer separate bodies but one mass of movement, of color. As the drinks started to hit me, the scene before me seemed to happen incredibly slowly at first, and then all at once. Suddenly, I was a part of it all, splintering and refracting my human parts until I, too, was just light, color, and sound, part of something frenzied and uncontrollable, magnificent but dangerous. Well, fuck. If that isn’t a metaphor for loving you I don’t know what is. But enough about my surprising knack for symbolism as an economics major. That was the night you kissed me for the first time. I found you in the hallway. Under the fluorescent lights, you looked like an actress who hadn’t bothered to take off her stage makeup after curtain call. You had gotten this amazing manicure the day before at the place on 108th and Broadway: black nail polish covered in silver glitter, and a bunch of delicate gold and silver geometric rings covered your hands. As you brought your hand to my face, I saw the gash on your right thumb cuticle that you never let fully heal. That you pick at when you’re anxious, or unsure of something. I’m curious, is it healed now? I was sweating tequila at this point, with hair sticking to the back of my neck, but you didn’t seem to notice. You looked me in the eye more sober than you ever did, or ever have since, and kissed me. Softly at first, and then with more confidence. Before I had even taken another breath you turned on your heel, raced into the bathroom, and threw up in a trashcan. 

I don’t remember when the city became steely and formidable that year, as it always does in the winter. I think I was too enamored by all your colors to notice. After the first truly freezing days, everything is gray, white, and icy blue. Now, it comforts me to look at the skyline from Central Park, and gaze upon the bare bones of the city, what’s left after the wind has swept away all the leaves, after the Christmas decorations have been taken down, and snow melts away into the gutters. You hated walking in the winter because you said the air hurts your lungs. I can’t argue with you there. The wind whipping off of the Hudson on a frigid Sunday morning freezes your nose and burns your lungs, even if you’re walking slowly. But recently, I’ve been going out early and looking up the half frozen river at the George Washington Bridge, and then down towards Battery Park. It’s peaceful. And the bright blue morning sky is full of possibility and streaked with white clouds. I even like the way Jersey City looks in the clear winter sun. Even though you’re long gone, sometimes I still find you here, in the city. I catch a whiff of your scent as I walk down Broadway, your sense of humor wedged between the pages of “The New Yorker” on the little green newsstands, your smile in advertisements for 10 dollar tarot card readings, and your fashion sense tucked away in the corners of flea markets and vintage boutiques. If you want, I could draw you a map of where you are in New York City. It looks like an isosceles triangle, and if you add one point in the right place it looks like a star. Just in case you ever want to come back and find yourself.