We sit in a quiet corner facing one another and rip off overheating winter coats. I poke fun at her fluffy, pink, pillow-jacket, and she shakes her head and rolls her eyes playfully. I tear the shiny foil off my burrito and sink my teeth into a gushy amalgam of beans and rice, smilingly reminiscing on our Valentines’ Day antics the night prior. After a bite herself she smacks her lips, indicating that she has something to say. She looks up at me with big, innocent, hazel-brown eyes. I look up, raise my eyebrows, and with my eyes still raised, throw my mouth back into my burrito.
“Sometimes I feel like I like you more than you like me.”
Teeth pause midway through a gnash of guacamole, chicken, and wrap. Juice drips down my chin. My frozen mouth slowly begins to chew again while she raises her eyebrows above a nervous grin. A grin. She expects me to say no.
I finish chewing, look down, and slowly drop my burrito.
I look up into her eyes again. “Yeah… I… kind of think you might be right.”
As her nervous grin gradually becomes a widened gape, her eyes become moons, and her eyebrows twitch; she sits back in her chair. Red lines appear in suddenly bloodshot tear ducts. She freezes, armed with nothing but a half-wrapped sandwich.
Her trembling mouth regretfully stutters, “Wh…” before trailing off into silence.
She turns her head away. My heart’s offbeat drum solo pounds through my chest, and I begin to think that maybe I should say something.
“I just sometimes feel like you’re… thinking about me all the time.” My eyes make a circle of the room. “And I get like. Super distracted by school. And then I like… like I… sometimes don’t think about you at all.”
She turns her head the other way. Thick, long, brown hair covers her left eye from my view, but I see her right begin to leak.
Silence reigns. Thick carpet silence: the stupid banalities of strangers’ side conversations about “beans too spicy” or “my failed test” or “the broken toilet” the only exogenous threats to unfortunately un-closable ears. She pulls her hair behind her ear and I watch tears pool in her left eye.
She bench presses the door and does not bother to hold it for me. With one arm in my jacket and the other still clawing at the sleeve, I awkwardly body slam the doorframe and sprint after my angry suddenly-ex.
Most long-distance relationships come down to a coin flip. According to a KIIROO study of 1,000 Americans, long-distance relationships have a success rate of 58 percent. 88 percent of people consider technology to be the saving grace of a long-distance relationship; yet in my experience, it cheapened our bond. Text conversations made our interpersonal connection less tangible — less real — even though she and I well exceeded the 343 texts sent each week between the average long-distance couple. Another study from the University of Texas at Austin found that couples use the pronouns “I” and “we” more often leading into and directly after a breakup. This change of language does not occur purposefully but rather because those with heavy mental burdens tend to become more self-focused. I suppose my mind was already made up.
When she steps on the bus, I know I have to as well. University of Connecticut’s massive 4,047 acres are only navigable by bus, and even though I have no student pass, the heavyset operator shows no interest in checking IDs. We again sit across from each other. Nobody talks. Half-working heaters fire cannons into the quiet air; no one fights the usurping sound. Her eyes do not meet mine but instead a phone screen. Watery brown eyes occasionally reflect blue from the screen’s light as her fingers tap softly but quickly, allowing the blue reflection once every few words.
Months ago, those fingers sent me a direct message and we began talking. She took her only free period at school to skip lunch and grab a coffee with me. I was most shocked by her hazel eyes and the way her thick brown hair framed her striking face. She told me she was off to University of Connecticut in the fall; I was finishing up my gap year, soon headed to Brown University.
I look around the bus at those sitting side-by-side and those sitting alone. Only 28 percent of people end up marrying their college significant other. And I had just landed myself in the other 72 that breaks up in burrito shops because they get distracted by a blonde athlete back at school that Snapchats them once a week. It’s the “might” that kills us 72 percent. As one professor from University of Utah puts it, “Humans fall in love for a reason… for our ancestors, finding a partner may have been more important than finding the right partner. It might be easier to get into relationships than to get back out of them.” One survey from Online Doctor found that the number one reason men cheated was because “the other person was really hot;” the top reason women cheated was because their partner was “negligent.” I had not cheated. I did not have the game for that. I had, though, sensed my mind drifting: pulling away from her, and towards other options.
After another 20 silent minutes of soundless discomfort and eyeline avoidance she steps off the bus, trudges through a snowbank, and moves towards her dorm. A long, snow-swept path leads to massive brick buildings, now winter-white from snowfall. Covered by no real boots but instead Vans skate shoes, my socks freeze, snow-soaked; each step offers little more than burning pain. She opens the large glass doors, and steps into the building lobby. Backing out is not an option, I tell myself. Be a man. I stumble through the doorway, tripping on the way in.
I see her roommate waiting in the beige-walled lobby with a furrowed brow and worry-sick eyes, as she stares at my now-ex. My ex shakes her head, says nothing, and keeps moving forward. I look at her friend from under the brim of my hat, but she does not look back. Silence holds its reign. My ex walks determinedly up a narrow dorm staircase. Lightly over-exerted breaths and heavy, snow-wet shoe steps fill the awkward soundscape. Her door creaks a regretful welcome and I let myself in.
Bright pinks and blues color the posters on her walls. The room’s two beds leave a small corridor between, where she’s placed a fluffy, white rug. She steps onto the rug, her back turned toward me. I see her stuffed animals on her bed, my Valentine’s Day card on her dresser.
I am reminded of the letter she wrote me after the first time we had split when we both went to college. Neither of us had found someone else at our separate schools. One short visit over Thanksgiving break left us both thinking the feelings were still alive. Studies have found that those with more fear of being alone are far more willing to settle for less just to be in a relationship again.
She turns towards me and cracks our silence. “How could you do this to me?” she asks. The phrase emerges as more of a whispered scream than as a question. As tears splatter against shaking arms she looks right into and through my fearful eyes. “How could you?”
“Just let me explain,” I say as I slowly approach and draw my arms around her. As soon as I make contact, she throws out her hands and screams, “Don’t touch me!”
I back up slowly, eyes wide open.
“I will never forgive you,” she declares. “I just don’t understand!” Her voice cracks my eardrums again. “How could you do this to me!”
In a quiet, direct voice, I respond, “Listen, if you really want to hear, I will sit down and explain everything, with complete honesty.”
She sits still for a moment. Silence echoes our frozen bodies. Slowly, she climbs onto the bed. I sit beside her, close, but careful not to touch. A bead of sweat drips down my back, soaking through my shirt and into my jacket. I have yet to remove the heavy coat. I anticipate escape.
“Look,” I admit, “I just think it’s so goddamn hard to be so far away from you. Every time I see another girl, I’m reminded of just how far away you are and just how much easier it would be if I were with someone near me. If we were with people near us.”
“But I don’t want them,” she says, “I want you.”
“Rhode Island is only a few hours away from Connecticut, but it might as well be the other side of the planet.”
She sniffles and rubs her eyes. “I just don’t understand… what did I do?” she asks.
“Please,do not blame yourself. It has nothing to do with you. It is time and circumstance and place, and it hurts so much to hurt you, to tell you like this. But I feel like I have to remind myself to think about you. And when my mind drifts and thinks about other girls more than it does about you and I catch myself there, it’s just like… why keep doing this?”
“I just…” she sniffles again and shakes. She stutters, “I — I just don’t understand.”
“I should just go.”
“No!” She stands, arms spread wide, and blocks my path. “Don’t leave. Whatever you do, don’t leave. I need you. Don’t leave me. I will never forgive you.” Her eyebrows crease and her voice lashes out, “I will never forgive you!” Her face shifts into drawn-down brows and a broken frown. “Don’t leave me. How could you do this to me. Just please don’t leave me.”
I stuff the last pieces of scattered clothes into my two bags and sling one over each shoulder. She stands in the center of the room between me and the door. I coldly brush past her. Now the air holds just the sound of her quiet sobs. The room’s heat begins to overwhelm, like a two-faced, lying comfort of warmth from the bitter, truthful cold outside.
I pause at the door and give one last look back. I look into her eyes. She does not bring herself to meet mine. “Goodbye,” I muster. I give her a moment to let her respond. She sniffles, and two more tears roll down her cheeks. I close the door and walk down the hallway.
66 percent of people agreed that the biggest challenge of long-distance relationships is a lacking sense of intimacy, one KIIROO survey found. 40 percent agree it’s a lack of communication; and for an entire 33 percent, it’s as simple as a time difference. Statistics fail to capture the irrationalities of relationships because relationships themselves are just as fragile as the people within them. When two people have to share one connection, its fragility doubles. According to matchmaker Hellen Chen, over 85 percent of dating relationships end in breakups. As she puts it, “If you are just dating with no intention of getting married to your partner, you are simply taking care of someone else’s future spouse.” Some psychologists associate the fragility of relationships with paradoxical over-optimism, fears of pain, fears of shame, anxiety, or pride – yet whatever the reason, a stable relationship seems to be just about the most unlikely experience one can imagine.
Ten steps down the hallway, my eyes begin to tear up. Hell no. I do not have that luxury right now. I wipe my eyes and focus my attention on how I am going to get out of Connecticut and back to Rhode Island. Did that really just happen? I check my phone. Five percent battery. I mean, that was worse than a movie. I sprint down the stairs, pulling up the Connecticut bus schedule as I go. There is one bus into Storrs Connecticut, one bus out — one way of escape: the Peter Pan Bus line. I check the current time. 5:42 p.m. I wonder what she’s doing now. I look at the remaining bus times. 6:10 p.m. How will she spend the rest of this horrible day? I scroll down, scroll up, refresh the page: 6:10 p.m. I bet she’s with her friend right now, talking about how much of a dick I am. Fair enough. I refresh the page and it, yet again, stares me back with 6:10 p.m. Hang on, that can’t be right. One remaining chance to leave tonight? One more bus time, leaving somewhere across campus, in 28 minutes? Picturing the night I’d spend on a frozen park bench outside the Gampel Pavilion, I throw my thumb to the “buy” button and quickly input all my credit card information.
I burst through the door into the blistering cold and pull down my hat brim, readjusting the backpack on my right shoulder and the drawstring on my left, the bags bouncing as I speed-walk through the snow. Still-soaked socks navigate more treacherous snowbanks, and I ignore pain both physical and emotional as I pull up my phone again to find the location of the bus station. Three percent battery. I press my thumb against the print reader. The screen shows just my wallpaper and the time. I press my thumb again. No change, just my wallpaper and the time. Then the screen goes black. Hm. Could this get worse? “Are you f***ing kidding me?” I yell aloud. Could this get any worse?
Lord, please let me escape this town, I think to myself. Six of every 10 acres of Connecticut are completely forested, and the oasis of Storrs, Connecticut has little to offer that is not directly connected to the university. On Vacation Idea’s “Top 10 Things to do in Storrs, Connecticut,” number five is the school’s “Museum of Puppetry;” and number seven is the school’s “Dairy Bar.” The list ends at nine, as though the author was unable to find a tenth thing to do in Storrs.
After a three-minute speed-walk-sprint-jog, my fingers begin to freeze and my contacts dryly blind my vision. Oddly I seem to be alone, navigating a deserted, frozen campus. I pass building after building on the sides of one long, empty road – sided by mostly grey, snow-covered dorms – until I reach the end of the path. I look at the building to my left and throw myself through a random grey door. My eyes enter tunnel vision as I seek out the nearest electrical socket. I wander through a dimly-lit hallway, wallpaper falling off the walls. I take a right and stop quickly. The hallway I stare down is unlit, uncarpeted, with dusty construction hats and drills reposing quietly in a corner. I turn back around, re-enter the hallway of sickly wallpaper, and find a pseudo-electrical socket I had missed before – just a drywood panel, holes, and open wires behind. I rip my charger from my drawstring and risk electrocution to give my phone some life.
Like phones, relationships become an addiction. As St. Louis University evolutionary psychologist Brian Boutwell explains, “you have that drive to get that fix in the form of being around that person you care about.” And when one loses that person, symptoms equivalent to withdrawal appear; although many consider a breakup something to just “get over,” there are physical consequences to a seemingly literal “heartbreak.” The heart “suddenly [grows] weak due to physical or emotional stress” and gives off symptoms of a heart attack, such as “chest tightness and shortness of breath.” Broken heart syndrome literally enlarges part of your heart due to the overflow of the stress hormone adrenaline. This size change physically alters how your heart pumps: doctors call this reaction “stress-induced cardiomyopathy.”
My heart pumps hard. My stint at this dilapidated charging station was costing me precious time, and I was probably illegally trespassing. I hold down the power button and wait for the big white apple to take the screen. Finally, my wallpaper returns, and the time: 5:56. I pull up Safari and search, “Storrs CT bus stop location.” Google Maps gives me 2075 Hillside Road. I double-check the Peter Pan bus website to verify the address. Peter Pan gives me 1356 Storrs Road. Dear god please no. Trust the address of a potentially outdated website, or a disconnected but constantly updated Google Maps?
I flip a coin in my head and choose to head for the Peter Pan website stop. After sprinting through now-packed college streets with Maps embarrassingly screaming at me before and after every turn, I finally arrive at the location. No physical benchmarks exist to mark the so-called “bus stop” — just some students walking up and down the street. I check my phone. 6:07. I panic. I put the other address – that from Google Maps — into my phone, and sprint there.
I arrive at 6:11. No signs of a bus. Students mill about in heavy hoods, snow-stained boots, and sweatpants, some seemingly already buzzed. I turn to a couple guys nearby and ask if they know the location of the bus stop.
“No clue bro, sorry,” responds the beanie-wearing frat bro. I throw my hands up in defeat.
With his head turned away, his hooded friend speaks up.
“Yo, you heading to Providence?”
“Yeah.”
“Peter Pan bus?”
“Yeah.”
He pauses for a moment, as if to double-check his eyes.
“…Yeah, that’s your bus.”
He points at the massive bus hurtling up the street with “PROVIDENCE” plastered on its screen.
“No way. Thank you guys so much,” I shout.
I watch the bus approach. I watch it pull up to the stop. I watch it not decelerate. I watch it accelerate. I watch the big green bus pass the stop and roar its engine as it speeds up the hill.
I break into a maximum effort hill sprint. I hear groups of college kids cracking up behind me as I run full tilt, two bags violently bouncing over my shoulders. As I sprint up this hill in the 10-degree darkness, I have just one thought: Karma.
I make it up the hill and watch the bus cross the street. It goes down another side road and slows down, stopping right next to the old benchmark-less Peter Pan website address. When I approach the bus, my battered lungs speak first.
I manage to burst out to the driver, “Providence?” between gasps for breath.
He takes one millisecond to look me over in distasteful judgment. “Just get in,” he responds coldly. He too does not bother to check for my ticket.
I step into the dark bus, choose a seat alone in the back, plug my now re-dead phone into the bus plug, throw my headphones on, and consider my next unknowns. According to a study from Nanaya, the average person has a 25% chance of entering a new relationship after seven months, a 50% chance after a year and eight months, and a 75% chance after three years and six months. I calculate where I might fit into this timeframe. Younger, self-certain people tend to stay single for less time than older individuals. I was young. But I was not self-certain. I watch UConn roll away in the snow-lit dark. I wonder quietly whether to text her that I’m safe, or to Snapchat that athlete from school, “hey.”
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