to a girl I wish I could forget

do you wish you could forget me too?

We were in Times Square, on New Year’s Eve, on a mission.

Jayce orchestrated the plan: three days earlier, he’d gone to the Marriott Marquis in Times Square and convinced the front desk lady that he was an ‘avid fan’ of the Marriott hotel chain. He asked only for one simple souvenir: a deactivated room keycard. She suspected nothing. She gave him three.

An hour before the New Year, armed with these keycards, we pushed through an anticipatory crowd toward a police barricade on Broadway. It was a remarkably warm winter night, and the streets were packed. The roads surrounding our objective had been completely blocked off — nobody was getting in. Except, we hoped, us.

We strolled up to the policemen, dressed in our finest attire. There were six of us, including Jayce, Arthur, me… and you.

You were gorgeous, a whirlwind in a glittering green dress. Former valedictorian, gifted kid burnout. Covered in tats and addicted to Xanax, you recorded DJ sets and took Polaroid photos. Over the last few days, I’d learned about your family: how you lived under your sister’s Ivy League shadow. How your dad once pinned you down and hit you until you stopped struggling. How your mom just watched it happen. You were broken, like me. I thought you were beautiful.

But you were Arthur’s girl. Not that he particularly cared for you — he said you two weren’t serious. I hoped that was true.

The first set of cops told us to move along. We tried a different street. Rejected again. But at the third barricade, a policeman noticed the keycards in our hands, saw how we were dressed, heard Jayce loudly proclaim, “We must get to our hotel!” — and let us through. We were in.

Each year, thousands of suckers stand and wait for hours upon hours to watch the ball drop. They shit in diapers and piss in the street, penned in like pigs. Not us. We were young and bold and above the law. We strolled towards the plaza.

But before we could celebrate, we encountered another roadblock — literally. A second, unexpected blockade was just past the hotel, so our keycards were useless. We heard a great, collective cheer from just out of sight. Ten minutes until the New Year. There was no way through. It was over.

Jayce made a quick decision — he pointed at the Marriott Marquis. We flashed our phony keycards at security and made our way to the front desk.

“Is there a bar we can watch the ball drop?” Jayce asked. “A rooftop?”

“Well, there is,” said the front desk lady. “But it’s a private event.”

“Oh, we’ll just head to our rooms then,” Jayce grinned.

We took the elevator straight to the roof. Up top was a VIP dining area, guarded by bouncers, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows, a full panorama overlooking the bright billboards and flashing lights of Times Square. The tables were lined with champagne and platters of chilled oysters. Patrons wore their finest attire. We fit right in.

Jayce and I acted without thinking. We puffed up our chests, wore huge smiles… and walked right past the bouncer. Absolute confidence often goes unquestioned. It helps when you look the part.

But you and Arthur (and the others) weren’t so lucky. A moment of hesitation, I guess, and the bouncer stopped you.

“Tickets?” he asked.

I doubled back to the entrance and tried to wave you in.

“They’re with us,” I assured the bouncer. He inspected my arm.

“Where’s your wristband?” he inquired.

Fuck.

Now I was stuck outside of the party too, and I was pissed — I was in the promised land, and I’d screwed it up. Only five minutes until the New Year. My mind raced. Time slowed down.

I walk briskly back towards the elevator, thinking I cannot let the bouncer remember my face. By the elevator, I notice a door, slightly ajar. ‘Club Room’, reads the bronze placard. Nothing to lose. I go in.

Waitstaff are bustling around, carrying food and drink. Paintings adorn the walls, and well-dressed patrons wander about, chatting. Once again, I puff up my chest, wear a big smile, and walk through with confidence.

“Happy New Year!” I proclaim, nodding at other patrons.

“Happy New Year,” they nod back.

At the far end of the room, I push through a door… back into the crowd of buzzing partygoers by those great windows overlooking Times Square.

And with less than a minute to spare. The crowd starts to cheer. I look behind to see you and Arthur and the others spilling out into the party. Jayce runs up to us, and we’re all together again.

The countdown begins. We’re jumping. We’re screaming. The cheers reach a crescendo and confetti falls, bright red and endless, and you and I pass into the New Year enveloped in light and warmth, surrounded by friends, in the most unexpected and magical way.

---

---

Later on, you told me I was the best kisser of all my friends.

Here’s how you knew:

Later that night, we took molly at the club. Well, you and I did, and Arthur only pretended to swallow his pill. You sat between the two of us, glowing, and for a moment, everything felt right. Somewhere between the drinks and the molly, the lights and the laughing and the dancing, I fell in love.

We returned to Jayce’s Midtown apartment, where we were all staying, and Arthur passed out in one of the bedrooms. But you wanted to get physical. You tried shaking him awake, to no avail.

“If you don’t get up,” you threatened, “I’m going to make out with your friends.”

“Do it then,” he snapped, and rolled back over.

So you did. You came into the other bedroom, where the boys were hanging out, and announced your intentions. You started with me — my New Year’s kiss. Then you moved on to the others, one by one. You finished with Jayce.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. You were still high off the molly and desperate to be touched. “Give me some action,” you begged. “Anyone. Just give me some action.”

“You should fuck Danny,” Jayce laughed. You looked at me. I looked away, dismayed.

I couldn’t believe it. I’d liked you so much. How could you have been such a whore?

No one touched you that night — you were still Arthur’s girl. The next morning, you said you didn’t remember anything.

But the damage was done: Arthur heard what happened, and he was done with you. When we went out drinking the next night, he made that clear by chatting up every pretty Latina in the club.

I’d gotten sick of watching you watch him all night, so I left early and went back to Jayce’s. I lay alone in bed, scrolling my phone in the dark. An hour later, you came back and slipped under the sheets with me.

“Wanna fuck?” You mumbled.

“Well… kinda.” I admitted. “How much did you drink?”

“Not too much,” you said. “But I took two bars.”

I froze. “Are you going to remember this?”

“Probably not.”

I took a moment to process that. You pressed your warm body against me.

“Do you even like me?” I asked, half-hoping.

“Honestly…” you muttered, “Not really.”

Pain and pride defeated desire. I got out of bed and slept on the couch.

Two days later, you fucked Jayce. You stayed in his apartment, and you fucked him after the rest of us had flown out of NYC. You accused him of stealing your panties. You texted me the details.

And that’s how we started talking.

---

“Come to Florida,” I urged into the phone. “The weather is perfect. Get out of the cold.”

I turned my phone camera toward the sunset. Sunsets in Florida are beautiful: pristine, uniform orange and pink, oil paints across an endless canvas. I was in Tampa on a gap year. I pictured strolling around with you on my arm.

“Maybe,” you laughed. “I’ll think about it.”

You were living in Chicago, working in software engineering, and considering law school. You were lonely. You missed your cat and hated your job.

You’d said you didn’t know what came over you on New Year’s, that you weren’t that sort of girl. And while it was hard to accept, I still had feelings for you.

We called deep into the night. I liked to study late, and you had trouble sleeping. Our schedules overlapped.

We chatted about our exes and your shitty family and our hometowns in Michigan. You’d grown up with some girls I knew from undergrad, and you showed me photos from high school. We set each other’s baby photos as contact pics.

You explained the chemical makeup of recreational drugs while I played with molecular models on the floor of my bedroom. Later, you mailed me a bag of ketamine. I took too much and became nothing more than a disparate collection of physical and biological forces. Time didn’t exist, and neither did I.

On Valentine’s Day, I wrote you a song. You said I was the first boy to ever do so, and I felt proud, like I’d irrevocably claimed part of your heart. In return, you made me a playlist with TV Girl and Honne and Rhye and Fred Again. I played it on repeat.

“I think… I think I love you.” I confessed, a week later.

“I guess I love you too,” you laughed. “Whatever that means.”

Love can be cruel. Now that I had you, I became deathly afraid to lose you. Whenever you took too long to text back, I was scared I’d said something wrong. Once, after a period of insomnia, you slept for 24 hours straight, and I experienced an endless, overwhelming panic.

“That’s not healthy,” you remarked afterward.

“Obviously.” But I couldn’t control it.

You were the first girl I’d dated since my sickness, and I was still rebuilding my identity and self-esteem. But I did have one thing going for me: I’d applied and gotten into music school. For the first time in years, I had a future.

Meanwhile, I started noticing a different side of you.

You complained about everything: your boss, your apartment, even your friends. You had terrible spending habits and spent thousands on clothes and gifts you could not afford.

But the biggest red flag was the time you had to work late and missed your train home to Michigan.

“Fuck! Fuck my boss! Fuck this stupid shit fuck him I fucking hate him.” you ranted.

I tried being the voice of reason. “Catch the train tomorrow morning. What's the big deal?”

“Fuck this, I fucking hate my stupid fucking boss fuck this fuck this fuck this. This is so fucking stupid! Fuck!”

I listened as you, a full-grown adult, threw a full-on temper tantrum at the train station. I sat there, stunned. Then I hung up the call.

“So, about Florida… do you still want me to come?” you asked a few days later.

“Let me think about it,” I replied.

Sunsets in Florida are beautiful. But they’re the same every day. After a while, you realize that behind all that gorgeous oil color complexion, they are completely, utterly soulless.

We stopped talking.

---

That fall, I moved to NYC to attend music school. I’d recovered from my mental illness. I had purpose and direction. I was dating plenty of women.

I’d nearly forgotten about you.

Then, in the spring, I saw TV Girl at a music festival, and they played our song from the Valentine’s playlist. And I remembered you. So I texted you a video of their set, and we started talking again.

Much had changed in the last year: you’d quit Xanax, you said, and your job, too. You left Chicago and were crashing with a friend in California.

You asked about my music, and I sent you a song I wrote. It was sad and nostalgic, and you loved it. You felt like it could have been written for you.

“Come to New York,” I suggested. “Let’s film a music video.”

“Let me think about it,” you replied.

You gave me one condition: that I respected your artistic input, that you wouldn’t just be a pretty face on a screen. I agreed, and you booked a ticket.

But then, on the day of your flight, you disappeared. You wouldn’t respond to my texts. I called the friend you were staying with, and he said you’d changed your mind. And I was disappointed but resigned. I took a nap.

I woke up a few hours later to texts that at the last minute, you’d gotten in an Uber and made it to the airport. You were already on the flight.

You were coming back to NYC.

I lugged your bags up six flights of stairs to my apartment in Midtown, Manhattan. I sat off to the side as you unpacked by the couch.

“Well, don’t be a stranger,” you said with a forced smile. I kept my distance.

You seemed diminished, somehow. Thinner. You told me how a powerful man in Chicago had lured you into his car one night, showed you a firearm holster, and had his way with you until the cops shone their flashlights into the car. You had enough evidence to put him behind bars — but you couldn’t manage it alone. You needed someone to go to Chicago with you.

“I’ll go with you,” I offered.

“Promise?”

“Yeah, I promise.” I meant it.

These were the good times. We walked down the West Side along the Hudson River. You wore a thin black sundress. It might have been the hottest day in the last hundred years, and I stepped into a fountain to let the cool water run over my face and arms. You followed me without hesitation, and we splashed around like kids in the sun.

I got you lemonade from a bar by the water.

“It’s cloyingly sweet,” you commented.

I raised my eyebrows. “Cloyingly? Really?”

“What? It’s a real word.”

“Not one real people use,” I shot back.

I took a sip of the lemonade. I had to admit — it was cloyingly sweet.

That night, we went dancing. We got back as the sun rose and lay on a blanket on the roof of my apartment, looking out over the city.

We were quiet, lying side by side. I reached out and put my arm under your head. You rested your head on my chest. I looked down at you, at your large doe eyes and your soft lips. Then I kissed you.

You kissed me back.

The next day, I graduated from music school. Afterward, you came to witness my roommate propose to his girlfriend in Times Square.

Only one problem: I hadn’t mentioned I was seeing another girl, who also attended the proposal.

Her name was Kate. She was a YouTuber. You two met.

That night, I took you to a graduation party. Kate called me, drunk, and asked me to walk her home. I told her no. You said I could go, but I stayed. I’d made my decision. I chose you.

We fucked on the floor of my living room. Your sharp hip bones dug into me as you thrashed below me as if struggling to stay afloat.

Wasn’t this what I’d wanted? What I’d denied myself twice before? What I’d dreamt of since I first laid eyes on you in Jayce’s apartment, two years prior?

Finally, after all this time, you were mine.

---

That’s when everything fell apart.

You didn’t sleep that night. In fact, you hadn’t slept in days — your mom disapproved of your trip to NY and, as punishment, withheld your latest shipment of prescription sleeping pills. You asked me to grab some generic pills from the corner store, but I brushed you off in my post-coital slumber.

The next morning, we were supposed to start shooting the music video. Instead, I got lunch with Kate. I apologized for ditching her, and she forgave me. I still wanted her. I wanted you too. I wanted both of you.

You were pissed when I got back. Not just because I’d met up with another girl, but because we only had two days to film before I left for China, and I’d wasted the whole morning.

“It’ll be okay,” I tried to assure you. “We have enough time to film.” You told me I was on thin ice.

We started at a tattoo parlor. I wanted to get a large neck tat, which you said was a bad idea — it would take too long. You were right, but I ignored your protests and got it anyway. You got fed up, left, and booked a hotel room. You told me you were done.

i very much regret it

I delivered your bags to your hotel room in a last-ditch effort to save the video. You listed all the mistakes I’d made: I’d love bombed you, fucked you, then left to see another girl. I’d ignored your creative input. You told me I’d taken advantage of you and your body, that I was no different from your rapist.

Well, that last accusation made me cry, so I agreed to atone for my sins. You sent me to retrieve takeout from your favorite halal cart. And to find Xanax.

“Are you sure?” I asked. We both knew your history.

“I need it to sleep,” you justified.

So I asked my friends, with no luck. You asked me to try again. I finally found some, and you slept for the first time in days.

The next day, to try and repair your trust, we got sushi and ice cream and wandered through SoHo. But you said it wasn’t enough. To prove my sincerity, you told me not to go on my family trip.

I said that was absolutely unreasonable. You said that I owed it to you. We got into a fight, and I left in a huff. You chased me into the hallway of your hotel and begged me to stay. I didn’t.

But I apologized. I admitted I was immature, impatient, and egotistical. I asked you to forgive me when I got back in two weeks — to stay in New York and wait for me.

Then I flew away to China.

---

At first, while I was abroad, I let you crash in my New York apartment. But after only a couple days, my roommate gave me a call.

“She’s bothering my sublease, man. She has to leave.”

So off you went, back to the hotel. Then I called Arthur and had him house you for a week. But Arthur still didn’t care for you, and you were miserable there.

Meanwhile, we called daily, and we fought daily. Each time we called, you recited every mistake I’d made, in order. You accused me of killing your creative spirit. You blamed me for getting you back on Xanax (when you asked for it in the first place!). You emphasized how much I owed you and begged me to fly back. And I almost did, but my mom convinced me otherwise.

It wasn’t all bad. We watched movies together: Her with Joaquin Phoenix, and Synecdoche, New York, directed by Charlie Kaufman. You showed me Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind — your favorite film. You even had a quote tattooed on your leg: “Meet me in Montauk.” You told me how much you felt like Clementine — a strange, beautiful girl who shows up in men’s lives, delivers excitement and personal discovery, then disappears. A manic pixie dream girl.

You needed me to fix the emotional damage I’d caused. And you wanted to finish the music video. But what could I do to restore your creative spirit? How could I make it truly special?

“Let’s film in Montauk,” I suggested. Where Clementine and Joel first met. You agreed to give me one last chance.

I flew back to NY.

---

---

I lugged your bags up six flights of stairs to my apartment, once again. This time, I resolved to take you seriously.

We went back to the tattoo shop and filmed ourselves getting little tattoos. I got a rose on my forearm, and you got a reference to Synecdoche, New York. We browsed nearby stores and stocked up on stickers and temporary tattoos — potential film props. We were getting along, and I thought, maybe, just maybe, it could all work out.

How wrong I was.

It’s hard to remember exactly why we fought. What did you say that set me off? Why did I find you so insufferable?

It must have started with the gold bracelet you got me for my birthday. You insisted I get it on my right wrist, to match yours. I wanted it on my left. You said that since you were buying it, I had to do it your way. We argued, and I eventually acquiesced.

Over the next few days, we spiraled. Part of it must have been sleep deprivation — when you couldn’t sleep, you also wouldn’t let me sleep. Perhaps it was the expectation, entitlement, and demanding attitude. Or the neediness, helplessness, the constant self-victimization. Whatever the cause, we fought.

I recall the final straw.

The night before we were supposed to go to Montauk, I asked you to let me sleep. I had a grad school application exam early the next morning and needed the rest.

You woke me up at 3 am.

“Danny. I had an idea. In the morning, you’ll take a later train and I —”

“What the fuck. What the fuck! I asked you for one thing. One fucking thing. To let me sleep.”

“I know, but I didn’t want to wait for you to wake up, and we can still go to Montauk—”

“No. Montauk’s done. I’m going without you. Fuck the video, this is over.” I took a pair of nail clippers and snapped off the gold bracelet you got me, the one we’d fought about. Then I locked the door and went back to sleep.

In the morning, I gave you until end of day to get the fuck out.

I called an ex-girlfriend and invited her to Montauk instead. Her name was Emma. I got you an Airbnb, blocked you, and went to Emma’s for the night.

The next morning, I woke up to nonstop calls from my roommate — at 3 am, you’d Ubered back to my place and let yourself into my apartment while I wasn’t home. I called you, furious.

“What the fuck! You broke into my apartment?”

You were unapologetic. "I was looking for my sleep meds. My phone is gonna die. I just need to crash for a bit."

"Get the fuck out!" I yelled into the phone. I boarded the train to Montauk.

We’d just gotten to the beach when I got a call from my roommate.

“She’s still here. You need to get her out.”

“I’m in Montauk.”

"I don't care. She's your responsibility, and she’s clearly unstable. She needs to go."

I found out later that you’d taken photos of my private journals, unlocked my iPad, and snooped through my texts, photos, and notes. You sent pictures of my journal entries to your friends. You laughed about them together.

I called your mom, then your sister, who lived in Queens — the one with the Ivy League shadow. I told them you’d broken into my apartment, that you refused to leave.

“She’s trying to manipulate you,” your sister told me. “Not unusual for her.”

“I know,” I replied, “But that doesn’t matter. You need to get her out of my apartment.”

“What do you want me to do about it?” your sister deflected. “She’s your problem now.”

I see it runs in the family.

There were no trains, so I took an Uber three hours from Montauk back to Manhattan. It was dark by the time I got back.

You were asleep in my bed. You’d picked at the skin of your face and opened countless sores. I looked down at your small and pitiful form, and my anger cooled. I took the temporary tattoos we’d bought and pressed them to your skin. They were roses, like mine. You woke up slowly as I covered you in flowers.

I got you down the stairs and into an Uber. Then I waved goodbye.

“Wait. You’re not coming?” You said.

I couldn’t believe it. “Are you serious? You broke into my apartment.”

“What did I do wrong?" you whined. “I just wanted my sleep meds.”

You hopped out of the car. You said you wouldn’t leave without me.

You wore a thin white dress with a red flower pattern, complemented by the open sores bleeding down your face. You looked like a monster. Passersby stared. It was clear my only option was to go with you, so I sent you to your Airbnb.

You had history with this particular rental. Years before, during the pandemic, you’d lived here with your boyfriend, and it still held a lingering magic for you. You asked me to spend the night. But I was tired and Emma was blowing up my phone, so I left.

You tried to stop me — You grabbed the door handle of the Uber as we pulled away, but I told the driver to hit the gas.

As we drove off, I resolved to never see you again.

---

“She doesn’t need you like I do. Leave her. Stay with me,” you pleaded, a few days later.

Once again, you managed to guilt me into making amends. We met in Manhattan and I delivered my apology.

I said we could try one more time to finish the video. I told you we’d meet in a few days to film. Then I tried to leave.

“You can’t leave. You’re not leaving until you fix what you’ve done.”

“What? I just said we’ll meet again soon.”

“That’s not enough. You can’t leave,” you demanded.

I stared at you, incredulous. I felt the anger flooding back, and walked away, toward the subway. I pushed through the turnstiles.

You ran after me.

“Wait! Danny. My phone is dead!”

I sighed in irritation.

"Fine. We’ll find you a charger."

But as soon as we left the subway station, you stormed off into the night, clearly expecting me to follow. I didn’t. Instead, I turned around and went home.

Two hours later, I heard a knock on my door. I peered through the peephole.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, exhausted but not surprised.

“My phone is dead. I walked here.”

I didn’t open the door.

“You’re not welcome here. Go home.”

“I just need to charge my phone.”

I thought for a moment.

“Stay there.”

I ran a charging cable out into the hallway, and we sat on the stairs. You promised the neighbor who’d let you in that once your phone was charged, you’d leave. But when the Uber came, you refused to get in. I called another, and you refused again.

When I tried to reenter my building, you stuck your foot in the door.

“You can’t go back in,” you insisted.

So instead, I turned and walked down the street. You followed a few paces behind.

“Where are you going?” you called out.

It was late, but the streets were scattered with stragglers from a night out. I turned the corner onto 10th Ave… and took off in a full sprint.

“What the hell!” You yelled. I heard you running after me.

I turned down a side street towards Times Square. A CitiBiker passed, and you pointed at me, shouting, “Stop that man!”

The biker pedaled harder, hot on my trail.

I threw my hands up, palms open.

“I didn’t steal anything,” I yelled back at him, still running.

He looked lost.

“He didn’t steal anything,” he told you, and slowed down.

I ran down into the subway station — but instead of going through the turnstiles, I ran up a different set of stairs. I sat there for an hour, head in my hands, until I was sure I’d lost you.

---

A month later, your mom called me.

“My daughter told me what happened. You’re a monster. You ruined her favorite city. She’s leaving New York tomorrow. You have to apologize.”

So I did. Again.

We met at night on the street by my apartment. You’d been staying at your sister’s until she called the cops and had you sent to a psych ER. I told you I never wanted any of this to happen, that I was sorry I couldn’t control my anger, that I couldn’t fix what I’d done and that we shouldn’t see each other again.

“You’ve said all this before” you remarked. “Is this why you called me out here?”

“Actually, your mom wanted me to,” I admitted.

“That bitch. I told her not to get involved.” You seethed.

I sat in silence on the stairs of a brownstone. You stood on the street.

Even now, I have trouble reconciling the two versions of you. On one hand, you were unreasonable, difficult, entitled, and pissed me off at every possible moment. You were a whirlwind, a hurricane. You swept through and wrecked me in the process.

And yet — you were just a poor girl who’d been hurt her whole life. A girl who trusted a boy who sold her empty dreams, a boy who was too immature and self-centered to keep his word.

“You promised to go to Chicago with me,” you accused. “You promised to help me.”

I said nothing.

I wish I could forget you. And maybe, by writing this letter, I’ll be able to let you go. But I know you won’t. You’ll ruminate and regret and rot in remembrance. You never could forget.

I called you an Uber.

You walked towards the car and stopped. And for a moment, I wondered if you would refuse to leave again, if I’d made a mistake meeting with you, if we were doomed to make the same mistakes over and over. You turned towards me.

“No hug?” You asked. I gave you a quick one.

You got in the Uber and left.