There was this picture of us together, and it was always hard for me to look at. I felt like I wanted out of myself every time I saw it. Part of me adored it: It was Halloween eve, and we had both done our faces like clowns. We were both topless, both in black sports shorts. My hands were crossed over my chest, each covering its own breast. Her head was pressed on my shoulder, her chin imprinted on my collar bone. Her face was straight on, she was smiling, but her eyes were looking at me in the camera, and I was tilting my head away from hers.
I’ve been scared for years of my own sacrifice for people I’ve loved; I’ve always given more than I got and I’ve been okay with it. I hated that this was the first time I noticed myself physically rejecting someone for whom I cared. It was like her dreams of moving to LA were being pressed down on me, as if I had held her back for wanting something more direct, immediate, intimate with her. I scribbled out the description of the picture, and went back to edit it from present to past tense. We were just clowns.