“We lived in the same room all of college. Our kinship grew every day. A paired set, a partnership. We shared meals, clothes, friends. Her family took me in. She was my family. We were brusque about it, though. If one of us, sappy after a night of drinking, started to say something real, the response was an eyeroll or shove. There was infinite time to spend together, infinite moments for our wordless kinship. But those years did have an end.
I was angry, slutty, processing a painful childhood, having unsatisfying sexual trysts with faceless men I didn’t tell my friends about, including her. She was anxious, inexperienced, struggling to express emotions to those she cared about. We didn’t talk about what would happen after graduation. I made plans to move to New York.
I started having sex with our very close mutual friend. It was different. He meant a lot–to both of us. When I told her, she said it was nothing, but I knew she was angry. She felt like a fool not knowing. It hurt that I was leaving her, but she never told me she wanted me to stay.
It didn’t matter that we weren’t ‘together,’ that we hadn’t had sex or even kissed. These types of bonds are much deeper than that.
For six months after I moved she wouldn’t speak to me. I had no friends, no community. She finally sent me an email. It was the first time my heart had been broken. I couldn’t eat or sleep. I moved through the city in a haze.” —
@natalierockhold 
