2019: My Girlfriend

She wasn't just a girlfriend. She was the last relic of a time when spontaneity didn't feel reckless. I remember the exact coordinates of our beginning: March 16, 2019. A dive bar in a gentrifying part of town, the kind with exposed brick and a jukebox that only played 90s alternative rock. She was wearing a faded yellow sweater and arguing with a friend about whether Fight Club was misunderstood or just toxic.

We argued about things that feel painfully trivial now: leaving the toilet seat up, why she watched The Bachelor ironically (she didn't), and whether we should adopt a cat. We didn't know we were rehearing the last act of a play called Normalcy. In 2019, our biggest fight happened at an IKEA. She wanted a yellow throw pillow. I wanted a gray one. We stood in the marketplace section, two adults on the verge of tears, because the pillow represented something larger: my fear of commitment, her fear of being controlled. A classic. my girlfriend 2019

What we never fought about? Global pandemics. Economic shutdowns. Canceled travel plans. Mask mandates. Social distancing. You didn't have to negotiate with your girlfriend in 2019 about whether it was safe to see your parents. You just got in the car and drove. She wasn't just a girlfriend

She moved back to her home state in August 2020. The last thing she ever said to me was, "I miss who we were in 2019." Maybe you’re reading this article because you typed that phrase into Google for the same reason I did. You’re not looking for a person. You’re looking for a time. A dive bar in a gentrifying part of

We held on for six months. But grief has a way of unspooling couples who only knew how to love in peacetime. We had never been tested by a real crisis. And 2020 was not the year to learn.