The current frigid weather is making me reflect on a holiday season when I wasn’t quite as cold. Today, I’m reminiscing about the time when I was bundled up in my Bethlehem apartment with a boy who was mine for just a few months. 

It was November 2022 and I was only halfway over my seven-month-long situationship that had ended that past August. It was the first real whirlwind romance that either one of us had been a part of. 

He was tall, handsome, and a little bit scruffy. I was petite, blonde, and had an affinity for fixer-upper men. 

We became best friends and said, “I love you” for the first time. 

He wanted to make it official, and, as per my usual behavior at the time, I wanted to run for the hills. 

Aside from my fear of commitment, I couldn’t get past our political differences, religious differences, and an age difference (that I actually preferred) that no one else in our lives approved of. 

I was nineteen, and he was twenty-three. In my mind, it had no potential for longevity, but, God, was the time we spent together intoxicating.

Breaking up with him in August was brutal. Leaving him felt like witnessing his death and putting the nail in the coffin myself. 

So, why would someone want to go through that twice within a six-month period?: Dumb, young lovers who found a piece of themselves in each other. 

Back to the inciting incident. In November 2022, my ex decided he was moving to New Jersey to get his Master’s Degree and work at Fairleigh Dickinson, a whole hour and thirty minutes away from me. 

Naturally, he used this as an excuse to come over to my apartment and “say goodbye.” I let him.

He bought me dinner and intended to leave without making further advances, but I kissed him. Brilliant. Seeing him reawakened the parts of my heart that missed him. Plus, he looked so cute with his freshly shaven face that I just couldn’t resist. 

After that kiss, we decided to spend the big three holidays together until he had to leave for his new life the day after New Year’s. 

Yes, it was totally morbid. It felt like awaiting another funeral, but it was also perhaps the most exhilarating time of our whole relationship. 

We did all the things we wanted to do and told each other all the things we never said the first time around. 

Maybe it felt safe because he was leaving. Maybe the fear of abandonment and pressures of pursuing a relationship dissipated because the breakup was already mutually agreed upon.

We shared our biggest fears, what vexed us about the other, and why a real relationship with each other would never work. 

He showed me Mad Men and I made him watch Dawson’s Creek.

We made out to a playlist called “Cool Dude” featuring the most romantic tracks of Mazzy Star and The Cure. To this day, the playlist turns my stomach as I remember all the late nights and bittersweet gazes.

In retrospect, perhaps if we had just let our guards down at the start of the relationship, we wouldn’t have given up on it in the first place.

I know that time in my life was significant, but I often wonder about its purpose. 

In which box does it belong in my memory? Was it foolish to spend one last holiday season together before ripping it away for good? Probably. Was it ultimately a beautiful example of seizing the day and spending time with those we love while they’re still here? That may be true, too.

Whatever the case, I remember that time mostly as a blessing. It was my first holiday spent with someone who adored every part of me.

It remains a safe place in my heart that I secretly revisit from time to time. Some nights when I feel a twinge of loneliness, the two of us are still singing along to “Hackensack” by Fountains of Wayne, which is where he still lives today.  

Maybe one day I’ll open up at the right time, 

The One That Let Him Get Away