Every Man You’ve Ever Loved Reincarnated as a Bug in Your Living Room

Connor, age 5: Told you your braid looked like a dead fish, then kissed you on the shoulder and ran away

Now: Teeny-tiny bug that would be almost imperceptible if it weren’t bright red. You allow it to scuttle from one end of your desk to the other because the fact that something can be so small and alive is a miracle.

Max, ages 7–10: Threw erasers at your head during math — possibly because, from ages 7–10, you were actually good at math

Now: Silverfish. Sounds like it would be a beautiful creature, but in reality is a lumpen bug with three tails that lives off of darkness and sugar.

Luis, ages 12–18: Knew all the words to “Memory” from CATS and made you swear you’d never tell his friends

Now: Ladybug that died over your door frame more than a year ago, whose dried-out corpse you still wish a “good morning” when you leave for work.

Derek, ages 18–19: Math major who insisted that world peace was possible if we all communicated in binary code

Now: Caterpillar slinking across your bookshelf. Skinny, furry creature with a self-satisfied swagger that is nevertheless kind of mesmerizing. Stops to examine your copy of Winesburg, Ohio and carries on, unmoved.

Seth, ages 19–21: Made up words with his friends and then used them in conversations with strangers. During your breakup, he ran his hands over your face and whispered one of these words forlornly

Now: Wasp. The kind of bug whose presence invades your psyche and inspires a completely disproportionate terror. For the past three days, you have ceded the westernmost corner of the room to this bad boy and have made your peace with never using your couch again. When you do finally capture it in your plastic smoothie jar against the wall, you very carefully slide a magazine over the opening, carry it outside and hurl the jar as far from your body as you can. It lands in the street and an oncoming car honks at you, then swerves to avoid it. When you tiptoe out to retrieve the jar, the wasp is still for some reason inside it. Its wings twitch in contentment.

Alan, ages 22, 23, 25, 26, 29: Once gave you a succulent that you have been watering religiously for years, because you are convinced, against all earthly logic, that the fate of your love is tied to the fate of the plant

Carpenter bee. Technically this bug is outside your window, which probably says something about your relationship. Alternates between pollenating some flowers and body-slamming your window, so you don’t ever forget it’s there. Generally looks bigger when in flight than when stationary.

Ted, age 24: Fell in love with someone else at a dinner party while holding your hand. It should be noted that this new object of desire was someone he would never meet, someone who was not even at the dinner party, someone merely described to him by your friend

Now: Spider. Also outside your window. This striped and bulbous creature has been wrapping a bug more than twice its size in webbing for half an hour. Occasionally, you’ve been glancing over from your desk and saying, “C’mon, man, what’re you gonna do with that bug?” Sure enough, when its job is complete, it finds the bug is far too large to do anything with, spins it for awhile on a single thread and then drops it, dizzy and powerless, some twenty feet to the ground. The spider proceeds to twiddle its two longest legs, presumably out of boredom.

Raj, age 26: Recited the first chapter of his novel from memory during sex

Now: House fly that has been slowly and loudly dying in your floor lamp.

Ian, age 26–27: Said “I love you” and then clarified a week later that he loves “all his friends”

Unidentified, red-and-black bug the size of your fingernail that’s been pooping liquidy dots on the window sill. You have never known a bug to poop before, but it does not surprise you that Ian would be the first. When you finally squish it with a square of toilet paper, it makes a loud cracking sound and squirts its mustard-colored innards along your forearm.

Weston, age 27–28: Asked you to please read Plato, so you could learn to have fewer emotions

Now: Carpenter ant. Looks like just a bigger ant, but eventually you find out it’s been pulling off pieces of your kitchen and using it to build a nest. Probably has caused some serious structural damage by now.

Marco, age 29: Read every short story you ever mentioned and then swiped right on your Tinder profile instead of making a move

Now: Small green bug that lives in your succulent and whom you have befriended.

Jay, age 30 — present: Texts you videos of himself doing seemingly innocuous things from angles that highlight his forearms (carving a pumpkin, steering a boat, leaning on a table). You write witty things back and he doesn’t reply

Now: Two dozen fruit flies. Annoying, but not that surprising. If anyone was going to come back as twenty-four insects, it was always going to be Jay. You accidentally left a half-finished cup of juice on the end table overnight and now there are a bazillion flying dots that are far too tiny and abundant to kill. They are most curious about your nostrils and have been taking your eyelashes as a challenge. You spend most of Saturday swearing at them.