To All the Boys I’ve Kissed at an EC Party, Seen the Next Day & Pretended Not to Recognize

You know who you are.

I’m so sorry. For the awkward walk-bys the next morning (and the next week, and the next month—let’s be honest, I don’t know how to get over things). For all the averted gazes and total lack of acknowledgement from me—in a Carman hallway, on the way to Absolute Bagels, adjusting my beret outside Avery. I’m sorry for all the feigned forgetfulness.

As my eyes flit past you, glazed over and full of lies, please know that you are in my thoughts. That I remember (more or less) each moment of electricity between us that fateful frat party night—drunk on tepid jungle juice and jumping around to Mo Bamba. I remember our gazes meeting amid flashing disco light, which is the reason I can’t reminisce about your eye color, though, I’m sure it’s lovely. In that moment of pure, utter connection, we lived unfettered by mere details like names or majors or hobbies. We were nothing but limbs and lips, fairly inebriated but totally alive.

But like an eye-level vomit stain on a townhouse wall, our love is An EC Thing: surprising, miraculous even. But strictly bounded by space and time. I’m too focused on my schoolwork (okay, fine, my social media presence); I can’t give you the devotion you deserve.

Maybe one day we’ll learn how to love one another properly. We’ll meet again in a sticky townhouse kitchen, our Paris. We’ll share that moment of pure connection, and maybe this time, it’ll last forever. We’ll name our first child Malibu.

But until that day, I’m sorry for staring at you blankly when I see you on campus. I promise I remember you, and I value our night of dance-kissing. I’m just awkward.

So until we meet again, I shall faithfully remain

Your Chagrined EC Lover