The Second

“You always get obsessed first — then you get feelings.”

My ever observant, intelligent, candid, and loving roommate made this exclamation as I struggled to reconcile the emotions flooding my current, second semester senior “obsession.”

Perhaps due to the nature of our beloved friend group, every obsession has been dutifully reported and updated on until the curiosity fades or hope evaporates. With the exception of one.

Flash back almost exactly a year ago and I’m in Taipei. I still remember the first time meeting him. It was Dexter’s whiskey class and we crowded into the upstairs office afterwards. While the officers joked that I should be a remote officer and that I could trade my citizenship with theirs, I met him. There it was, Beauty and the Beast.

The stories surrounding him were the typical set up: unreciprocated crushes, motorcycle boy, latte artist by day, barista by night, and a thinker. His kindness and thoughtfulness needed no further reason; the oriental beauty loose leaf he gave me sits untouched in my drawers not because of dislike. The exact opposite. I can’t bear the sight of it diminish in volume. It seemed to be apparent to one particular pair that the goodbye hug during this exchange seemed to be neither satisfying nor communicative enough of the light obsession.

To be honest, all other things not an issue, part of me certainly wished that “we” would have worked out. I pulled the ever boring but safe study card and topped it off with my second favorite: dessert. It was an exhilarating study day especially because I thought for a second I was going to fall off the bike and die on the bridge far away from NTU. Our McDonald’s trip was another adventure entirely but contributed to the lingering, unnamed feelings upon my return.

Even now, it would be a lie to say that I’ve become indifferent to his friendship. It’s as if even Facebook knows this, kindly broadcasting his status updates and selfies no matter how many hours we are away from each other.

I think I would have liked a shared future, it was just that circumstance was not in my (our) favor. In that, or perhaps out of some odd psychological coping mechanism, I’ve developed a new perspective on these “obsessions” of mine. At the ripening, competitive age of 21, I have begun to think not in “ideal” models but “standard” ones. It seems odd, going from one unrealistic comparative method to another.

In evaluating obsessions, the critical question is, would I rather spend time with my Starbucks magician or him? Don’t misunderstand — it’s not that he’s a “low bar” or “minimum” in terms of characteristics I’m looking for. It’s not settling either. Rather, to steal the words from a friend: “I think I’m old enough at this point to know what I want and who I want to be. It’s just a matter of getting there.”

If my Biker Boy wins the comparison nine times out of ten, which I would say is pretty much the case, I think the point stands that rather than a minimum, he serves as a filter. I missed out on something that gave me happiness; it best not happen again.

What about that one time he loses? Well, that’s another story entirely. I’ve paraphrased some rendition of this before but: they say it’s not your first love who you care about the most. Rather, it’s your second — because that is when you learned to love again.