Saturday, June 28th

I recently reconnected with an old friend. I had just finished my remix album and felt inspired to send it to a few people who used to (and still do) matter to me. One of those people was a former roommate: We both studied philosophy in college, shared a love of architecture, and lived creatively rich lives. When I sent him the album, it sparked a short but meaningful conversation about our creative processes. He mentioned that love is his greatest inspiration right now, and told me he’d bought a ring for his girlfriend… the same one he began dating when we lived together.

Of course, he probably expected me to be excited for him. Back when we lived together, we were both navigating our first adult relationships. We even went through breakups during the same summer, which created a bond between us. And since we both loved philosophy, love became a kind of playground for our conversations. So it would make sense that I’d be excited for him now.

But not this time.

I hadn’t realized until that moment just how much hope I’d still been holding out for him. In hindsight, it makes sense. When he fell in love with the woman he just bought a ring for, I spiraled into a mental health crisis. There were many contributing factors, don’t get me wrong. But looking back, I can see how a lot of the chaos came from me trying to escape a broken heart. I always said it was my shitty ex who broke it. But that never fully explained the depth of pain I was carrying. My roommate, well, he held far more weight in my heart than I’d ever admitted.

That semester, most of our other roommates were abroad, so we had the off-campus house to ourselves. I looked forward to our nights: watching thrillers, playing video games, talking about our ideas. I told myself I loved it in the same way any guy loves hanging out with his roommate. But I didn’t love hanging out with any of my other roommates like that. We had plans to be directs our senior year, and I was thrilled. Yet, after our hangouts, I’d often put myself through awful experiences I couldn’t explain. And I still wouldn’t admit why.

Then, the unthinkable happened. My brain broke. I didn’t get physically sick, I got emotionally ill.

The whole nightmare landed me in the hospital. But before that, I had two weeks of intense bedrest at Algonquin Rd. I wasn’t acting from a place of clarity, and my roommate witnessed it all. He stepped up. Alongside my family, he became a caretaker. He didn’t owe me that. He certainly didn’t deserve it. Yet, he did it anyway. And I think, somewhere inside me, I noticed that I wanted to care for him just as much. But that wasn’t something I was ready to be honest about, so I buried it.

I went to the hospital, pretended I was fine, and tried to move on with life.

That summer, we still lived in the house together and made the best of it. Things weren’t easy. I was on meds that made me fat and emotional. They also took what felt like a decade off my maturity and intelligence. We were both job hunting and smoking a lot of weed. But we had fun — or at least I thought we did. Because out of nowhere, he told me he’d be going home for the rest of the summer. The house went quiet. A few days later, I got a text: he had decided to move off-campus for senior year. That moment marked the beginning of my decline.

I was assigned a random roommate. After the crisis, my old roommates didn’t speak to me anymore. Neither did most of campus. I started hiding — not in the common room, but in my bed. I wasn’t resting. I wasn’t healing. My new roommate would blast the TV at 4 a.m. every night. I barely slept. I just laid there, numb, thinking about how I was supposed to be having the time of my life — senior year with my best friend.

Eventually, I moved out of the dorms. It was easier to be alone than to feel invisible while surrounded by people who used to care about me. I was nasty, angry, fat, and depressed.

And it stayed that way for a long time after graduation. In my mind, I blamed everything on the shitty ex. That’s what led to my crisis, which pushed my roommate away, which led to my depression, which led to the collapse of my post-college life. Only late last year did I start putting the pieces back together. And as I’ve become myself again, I’ve been more confused than ever about that time in my life… until now. When he told me he was marrying the woman he dated junior year, everything clicked. Years of confusion were suddenly clarified.

The truth is, when I describe the kind of man I want to be with, I’m just describing him. But of course, in my memory, he was only ever a friend. Now that I see that his relationship with her isn’t some temporary detour, now that I know he won’t suddenly realize he wants to try being with a guy, my heart finally stopped lying to me.

I didn’t sleep for days and cried more than I ever have. But there’s a silver lining in that I’ve never felt more creative, I guess.

Maybe he was right: Love is the greatest inspiration.
Especially when it’s impossible, delusional, and unrequited.

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Fuck you Mac.