A few days later we were discussing the details in person. I would join AmeriCorps, a roving volunteer organization. I would be stationed in Denver but moving around. She would visit at Thanksgiving. I’d return to Boston during winter break.
Then I said, “I’m not bringing my laptop,” and her lip turned over and she started to cry. I realized later that she saw my rejection of technology as an assault on the very core of our relationship.
We had gone to the same high school in New Jersey, and when we both ended up at colleges in Boston I fell in love with her familiar face. Together we nursed our dying childhoods, going to the circus and calling each other pet names.
I would call her as I walked to class, alternating my phone hand when it turned pink from the cold, and she would text me during lectures. We’d video chat from our dorm rooms, half-talking while surfing the Internet, calling out occasionally to make sure the other was still there.
This was after communication had become nearly limitless but before people thought much about boundaries. Taking advantage, we fell in love like addicts. All day long the contents of my heart would slide down my arm, past my sleeve and into my phone. When we were together I chafed from overexposure, but when we were apart I would lose my sense of identity and grab my phone.
Our ultimate break-up was confusing and explosive. I landed in Denver around the time the housing market crashed. Deep in heartache, I called my friends while pacing outside my new dorm. Sometimes I called Sarah, until we agreed to stop talking.
During the monthlong orientation I explored and grieved and went to bed early. New friends would invite me to the Mexican bar across the street, but I was dedicated to my loneliness.
I met Patti in an airport van full of idealistic AmeriCorps members. I liked her eyes, which looked like those of the Afghan girl from that famous National Geographic cover. While everyone was discussing the best ways to save the world, she was taking in the passing public art. Forced to weigh in on the conversation, she expressed a bold realism that I found refreshing. Back at the dorms, I watched as she crossed the parking lot and sailed off into the sunset in her boxy 20-year-old Crown Victoria.
Soon I was inventing reasons to hang out with her. She was quiet, pausing for several seconds before answering questions. I would talk until I exhausted myself, fearing that her silence meant she didn’t understand. Then, like Muhammad Ali coming out of the rope-a-dope, she would say something astoundingly true. Knocked out, I couldn’t repress my smile.
We started sitting together during the AmeriCorps meetings. Still, I was resistant to love, fearing a repeat of my past relationship. I opted to join a wildfire-fighting team, assuring that I would spend a majority of the year in isolated mountain towns and away from Patti.
Upon separating she suggested we write letters. A few weeks later I addressed an envelope to Texas, where she was living in a tent city and working for FEMA. At first I poured thoughts onto the page like I was sending a long text message. By the time I finished, the words at the beginning seemed untrue or melodramatic. I crafted and reworked. Sometimes I would rip the letter up and start over.
Her letters were often entirely visual, scattered magazine collages. I would hold an unopened letter for a while, delaying gratification. After reading them, her intimate stories wouldn’t fall to the bottom of my in-box and disappear, but stay with me, under my bed, waiting to be reread.
We started to call each other at night. She told me about her love for the sprawl and beaches in our home state, New Jersey. She told me that, despite her tall, slender frame, she hated sports. I was falling in love, but Patti hesitated, wanting time to allow her feelings to settle. I struggled to accept the uncertainty.
David Mark Simpson, a runner-up in the Modern Love college essay contest, is a senior at Rutgers University.