She’s lucky.

I don’t remember everything I said when I left him. The last text I would ever send on my American number. The last call I would ever take on U.S. soil. But I do remember saying that whoever he chooses in life, whoever she is, she is a lucky person. Because she has him.

I don’t want to romanticize everything about him, because the first time we met it was obvious it was just a physical attraction with some alcohol mixed in. Our first time wasn’t even very satisfying. I remember telling myself, Stay awake, because I wanted to get out quietly. But everything changed after I left the room.

Hope you got home safe. I had a lovely time with you and hope you felt the same.

It was just a one-night stand. But he texted me to make sure I was okay. This was really sweet; no other man had done that before. He later sent me pictures of his weekend; I giggled over them with my (soul) sisters. Maybe I was already in too deep.

We had a lovely weekend in San Francisco next week. Despite being in the Bay area for more than a year, I had never explored SF because I didn’t drive and the bus was so unpredictable. He took me anywhere I wanted to go, bought me drinks at this new bar. Took me to ice cream over Vista Point. Bought me brunch. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other.

The week after was the South Bay. Apple HQ, the Mothership, the Google campus. Everywhere I had wanted to go but couldn’t, he took me. Who would do all this for a one-night stand? I woke up in the middle of Saturday night and cried. Cried because I had to leave him the next day. Cried because all the men that came before had been a joke. It was 4 A.M. and he hugged me to sleep. I was in with no way out.

Your legs are so white and soft, my hands just won’t behave.

This pattern kept repeating itself until he called, one late summer night.

“I have to go stay in Orange County, it’ll only be for a couple weeks. You can come visit me.”

I sat there, dumbstruck. I stammered my way through the conversation, and just kept sitting there after he hung up. Then he texted me:

I was so glad to hear your voice. Please don’t worry too much. We’ll still see each other.

He texted to say he was glad to hear my voice. Okay. I will survive these two weeks.

I started putting things together for a trip to the O.C. A bikini was in order (duly purchased) and sunscreen too. I texted my soul sister; she had stayed in Berkeley over the summer and had experimented with every kind of sunscreen available on the market. She said: ‘Shiseido. the 50 one.’ I packed a bottle.

As it happens, it was my birthday weekend when I arrived at the airport. He was there early — “you smell so nice” — and took me to a Korean restaurant. To appease me, because he knew I somehow missed my native food. We drank somac. We woke up late the next day, because we had barely slept.

Next day he took me to the L.A. and the beach. I put the sunscreen on him; he hadn’t packed any and he would have burned under the heat. He took the first and last picture he ever took of me: a bikini-clad myself looking out into the horizon. Later, I humored his Indian side and took him to Japanese curry. (/s) He loved it so much that he would return to this place during his working week every other day and for many months after.

At the airport, he said he won’t be seeing me for some time; he was going to stay for a few more weeks and head straight to India to renew his visa.

“Just a few weeks, honey.”

I broke down. I was crying so much at the terminal that a kindly lady bought me coffee. I was still crying when I landed at San Jose and cried nonstop all the way home. I put away my stuff; and came out to walk it off. I was still crying like a lunatic. Another kindly old man came to talk with me. “He left,” I said. He replied, “Well, I can show you a good time.” Fuck off, please.

A week passed. I was in too deep, suffocating under the weight of my own tears. I would be okay in class, just to walk out and cry all the way home. I started wearing sunglasses regularly (I never had before) because it was easier to hide myself. He said I shouldn’t fly out that weekend, but I took the red-eye out. My Uber drivers said: “Oh honey. You must care about him, a lot.” No shit, Sherlock.

I knocked on the door. He just hugged me as I cried. He canceled all his appointments and humored me. I left a day early, but I was happy. I didn’t cry so much that time.

The weeks in India were difficult. Time zones and family kept him from me. One week turned into two, then three, then a family trip. It turned out to be six weeks. I was so stressed that I got a pulmonary embolism within two weeks and was put in hospital. Through the excruciating pain of the CT, only his image held me tight. It was more powerful than any analgesic. I was in too deep.

He took me to a Korean restaurant in the Bay once. I decoded the menu to pick out something hearty and vegetarian; I myself had tripe. He was Hindu and never would have ate that. I would probably not eat vegetarian, given the choice. We respected each other’s choices. Common sense, you can argue, but a trait I have seen in no other man before or since. The owner gave us freebies, saying “oh, you two look so sweet.” Maybe I looked too happy.

He took me to a speakeasy one day. A dodgy neighborhood in San Jose. I was wearing my favorite dress, a summer goddess-style maxi, and put a leather jacket over it. He whispered to me how sexy I looked, and touched me in all the right places. Back at our hotel, with cocktails on our lips, we did it with clothes on, because we couldn’t waste more time.

He was away for the end-of-year holidays. Some job in New Orleans that took a few weeks. I had my IUD inserted then. I was okay leaving the clinic alone, but in the night was delusional with pain. Voice iMessage was a novelty at the time. I remember sending him one, fueled by the slight high that the narcotics provided. Please, baby, I miss you too much. It hurts to be alone.

The last night we were together, he took me out for one last time. Reservation at a tapas bar. He knew how I liked my drinks, knew how spicy I liked my food. Held my hand, and thanked me for our times together. Too many one-night stands to be casual. Too little time to be serious. Maybe my limited time was for the best.

He didn’t stay for my last night though. He drove me to the hotel, helped me take up my things. We said goodbye in broad daylight, as if that was supposed to make it less hurtful. I spent the night in self-pity and McDonalds. Next morning I wore sunglasses to the airport, because my tears were still running free. I sent that last text, called that last call. Then the full weight of everything came down on me.

I was fortunate to have the whole row to myself on the plane. The crew took pity on the crying, inconsolable girl and kept up a steady stream of tissues and refreshments. They even gave me two dinners at one time, when I said I was a bit peckish. I watched The Fault in Our Stars and The Perks of Being a Wallflower to drain myself of any more tears. I arrived to a bloody cold night and ice on the road; a stark juxtaposition to the sunny dryness of Californian weather. It was over.

So I thought.

He kept remembering me. The Shiseido. The beach. The curry. My skin. My hair. 2NE1 songs.

I kept remembering him. The Patriots. The Packers. Manchester United. Old Spice commercials. Mint shampoo. His contacts solution.

We kept remembering when we shouldn’t.

And that was my downfall.