The Night I Want to Remember

I don’t remember that night.

The sky could have been filled with stars, creating constellations that those before us spent countless hours pouring their souls into, discovering the patterns that formed in the dark canvas above our heads. Or the sky could have been bare, naked for us to take in its glory of emptiness, an invitation to fill it with something that wasn’t there.

Someone could have been watching from a distance, an innocent bystander taking in the scene of yet another moment in which I could have done things differently. But maybe, they weren’t as innocent as I made them out to be. Maybe they were selfish, wanting to pry into the lives of two confused souls sitting by the pool after a graduation party, wishing for the two to do something they probably shouldn’t. Or perhaps, there was no one at all, and we were all alone, utterly to ourselves.

That wouldn’t have been so bad, would it?

There were tiny hills on my arm. I suppose it was cold. This fire devoured my body, leaving third-degree burns beneath the layers no one could reach, shrouded to the naked eye.

I could go on like this, crafting my very own brand of guessing game as I try to decipher what could have been in the night I’ve forgotten, but frankly, I’m tired of lying. Lying made me lose you, and I’m far better than that now. Now, I understand. Now, I’m older.

I do remember something.

You were wearing a white collared dress shirt, and the top buttons were loose, exposing skin that made it hard to look away. You were free. After a day of endless conversations in your house, hearing congratulations in every one of them, you were finally able to be vulnerable. For a reason I still don’t understand, you decided to be vulnerable in front of me. I was outside by your pool, my feet swaying in the chilled water, creating circles with the tips of my toes. You weren’t there just yet, but you were present in another way.

“He’s a college graduate now,” my friend said, sitting beside me on the cold pavement.

I remember laughing, not sure how to communicate something that pulled at my chest, grasping my heart in a tight embrace until blood dripped from its hold. How could I have told them that the mere thought of your reality back then terrified me, because it meant you were out in the real world while I was still finishing high school? I always knew you were older, but now, it felt real. Now, I felt infinitely younger because I wasn’t going to be there during your first years of adulthood. I wasn’t going to feel your hands, the subtle movements of your body brushing against me when no one was looking, when our friends and families were too distracted in their own world, not even noticing the separate one we created. I guess you could say I was selfish to think all this, but I was just inexperienced with what I had been feeling for the first time. A feeling that existed because of you.

“Hey.”

That voice, that simple greeting had me in shambles. I was disorganized, left in my private chaos while you were just cool, with your simple, Hey.

You sat beside me on my left, my friend on my right, making me feel like a winner. He came to sit next to me, I told myself. You took off your dress shoes and placed them beside my heels as you joined us with your feet in the water, inches away from mine. A distance that still felt too far. After a while, just like any other person in my predicament, I wished for us to be alone, and as if my thoughts were broadcasted for the world to see, the girl next to me got up and left, leaving us in a deafening stillness.

It was now just you and me, and I felt exposed as the minutes brushed by. I didn’t feel like me, yet I wasn’t afraid. I was excited. We were alone before, but something about this moment felt new as we both stared forward into the nothingness.

Soon, my crowded thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of splashing water, legs lifting from the pool, and my heart sank, drowning into the deep end below us. You were leaving. It was starting.

But, like many other times in the past, I was wrong. You were looking everywhere but at my eyes. You laid your head on top of what was primarily bare thighs as my short black dress rode higher with your unexpected action. Your hair was wet from the sweat trickling in between it. I had to stop myself from running my shaking fingers through your jet-black hair and refrain from wanting to feel you so severely. It’s better this way, I told myself as I lied to an aching heart.

“What do you want in a man?” you asked.

I repeated the question out loud, directing it to myself now, which made you laugh.

“I don’t know.”

I did.

“Maybe, someone strong.”

The first word that came to my head.

“Someone manly.”

I was feeding you what you wanted to hear.

“Someone who can protect me.”

That part was fine.

You were laughing again, and I knew what you were thinking. You realized how elementary my answers were and how much they lacked substance. Here you were, trying to be intimate, and I was just…young.

“I also like when someone could be vulnerable with me.”

You stopped laughing.

“Vulnerable,” you whispered.

I looked down, roaming across every freckle, memorizing the contours of a face that constantly appeared in my thoughts. You held my gaze, and that’s when I heard it—the words that screamed in my mind and the ones that begged from your eyes: BE VULNERABLE! I knew it’s what you wanted, what I craved, and yet, I decided to do the one thing I shouldn’t have done at that moment.

I laughed.

I backtracked.

I listed what I thought you wanted to hear.

I faltered.

I stumbled in our conversation.

I was unsteady.

I was scared.

But I was just me: young and naïve.

When I left, you kissed me on the cheek, lips lingering, when no one was looking. It was the first and last time you did that, and I felt completely in awe of you. But my happiness masked the other overwhelming thought that resided in the twisted coils of my mind as I walked down the steps of your front porch.

That felt like a goodbye.

I only saw you briefly once or twice after that, and my feelings remained in your absence as the years went by. That’s when I knew I couldn’t do it anymore, that I had to stop waiting for something that was never truly mine. So, I decided something.

I decided not to remember that night. I decided not to delve into the private moments we had together, the possible reasons that selfishly allowed us to grow apart: you being a family friend, my older brother’s friend, me going to college and living in different cities, you living your life in the real world, and me, who still had time to get where you were. I decided not to always think about you whenever I went out and had nameless lips fall on my own. I decided not to think about the text you sent me one late night, a couple of years after not seeing each other when you were out with my brother.

“Why didn’t you come out?”

“It’s a boys’ night.”

“But Sun,” you said, abbreviating my nickname, Sunny. “You’re family.”

“I promise, next time.”

The next time never came.

I decided to forget you. I decided to forget how you made me feel, which meant forgetting about the night I could have done things differently. I often thought about that question you had asked me and the answers I would have given you if only I knew what I know now.

“What do you want in a man?” you’d say, and I would run my strong fingers through the tips of your hair and smile, not laugh.

I would tell you I want someone who isn’t afraid to show themselves around me and wouldn’t be afraid of seeing the different skins I wear, the layers that have worn me through the years. I would tell you I want someone who will fight for me and bring me back to the surface when my demons make uninvited appearances. I would tell you I want someone who will make my stomach hurt from how much I want to touch them, to take in every part of them and mold them into me. I would tell you I want someone gentle yet hungry for my world. I would tell you something I had already told you before: I want someone who could be vulnerable with me. And this time, I would ignore the fear. I would keep talking.

It’s been six years since we’ve seen each other, and a part of me is okay with that. You will always be the person who made me feel things that I now have the privilege of exploring in other people. I should thank you, because the truth is you made me excited for someone else—someone I know who will make me feel strong enough to say all the things I was too afraid to tell you. Someone who will make me remember every detail of a night—from how the sky looked to how the weather was to how alone we truly were in a moment that was just ours to witness.

That’s the night I wish to have.

That’s the night I want to remember.