How to Deal With Millennial Love
Nicole Christine Caratas
6:43 a.m.
Sorry I ducked out before you woke up. I
had fun, but we both know it’s probably best
we never mention this again. Our moms
would kill us. See you at Easter!
8:02 a.m.
How. Fucking. Dare. You. “See you at Easter.”
What the hell is wrong with you, Razvan? It’s not
like we’ve known each other our whole lives or
anything. You could have waited! You could have
woken me up!! You could have done absolutely
everything differently!!!! You could have tried, for
once, to be a goddamn decent person!!!!! Our moms
wouldn’t kill us? You know they’d be happy if we
told them we were together. But APPARENTLY
we’re not. I guess I’m not any more important to
you than those bitches you go home with every
other night. So I guess that’s something I get to deal
with now. Fuck you, Raz. Fuck you!!!
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8:49 a.m.
I should have told you how I felt last night. But now
it is clear you don’t feel the same. So I’ll ignore the
waves of bitter happiness that drown me every time
you kiss my cheek and give me a hug. I’ll ignore
your laugh, even though there’s no better sound. I’ll
ignore the fact that I’ve been waiting for you longer
than I’ve been waiting for myself to figure out my
shit. I’ll never bring it up again.
Not delivered
10:51 a.m.
Do you remember all of those parties we had
growing up? I know we still have them, but do you
remember what they were like when we were little?
Your family was always late. The rest of us would
all be up in my room talking about the latest stupid
thing our parents let us see on TV that all of the
American kids in the neighborhood weren’t allowed
to watch. It would be really dark by the time you
made it, and when the doorbell rang, we all
assumed it was Santa Claus. But instead of a bright
red suit outside the door, your dad’s ugly beige one
filled the window. We’d all run down, completely
disappointed. But then you’d walk in. You’d hug
me and kiss me on each cheek. I’m not sure if
anyone else was nearly as excited to see you as I
was.
We’d drag you upstairs. I’m not sure why this
happened once all the kids were together, but the
boys would go hang out in the guest bedroom and
leave us girls to ourselves in my room. I wish you
hadn’t done that. I know I hid it well, but I really
didn’t like those girls. Can you believe that we’ve
been thrown in with all of these “cousins,” almost
none of whom are related, and we’ve just been
expected to like each other over the years?
Remember when I was 10 and you were 14 and I
convinced you to do a duet with me? Santa would
eventually make his way into our house, and we’d
follow him into the living room, scream-singing the
colinde that our grandparents spent the last few
weeks teaching us the words to—we always forgot
them during the year. As soon as he sat down in a
chair in the center of the room, I pulled you up in
front of everyone. I cleared out a little space in front
of the fireplace. You hated it. But I loved that kind
of attention. I made you sing “Astăzi s-a născut
Hristos” in a loop with me. You couldn’t wait until
I was ready to start in on “Afară ninge liniștit” so
you could get a break, could you? It was a shitshow.
But my Papu loved it, and your mom cried because
you were finally participating in something.
That was the first time I decided I wanted to end up
with you. I’ve made that decision a lot over the
years. Sometimes I forget about you. But the second
the families get together, it comes back. Especially
now that I’m 23 and you’re turning 27. It’s not a
childhood crush anymore.
Every time my Maia asks me if you’re in law school
yet, I remember. When you brought Roni to a
family party for the first time, I remembered. When
Roni died and we lost you for a few years too, I
remembered. When I graduated high school, and
then college, and you didn’t show up to either of my
graduation parties, I remembered. When you spent
my sister’s wedding reception comforting me after
my boyfriend and I broke up, and you held me as I
cried into your bottle of Bulleit Bourbon, I
remembered. Last night, I remembered.
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11:23 a.m.
My Maia likes to talk about how handsome you are.
I always like to act like I haven’t noticed. When we
were all in our college years and we started hanging
out on our own without our parents forcing us
together, she was so excited. She kept asking, “Is
Raz coming?” We never really talked on our own,
but when you’d see me, you’d give me hugs and a
kiss on the cheek, and to me, that made up for the
silence in between our taco nights. It’s stupid I
know. But my Maia’s constant questioning amped
up my hope. I created a version of you in my head
that was in love with me. I think I even started to
believe in it.
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11:23 a.m.
How could you not realize how I felt about you? I
seriously don’t even know what else I could have
done. I invited you into my apartment. We drank
Bulleit! You got mad at me when I called the
ending of “Maleficent” in the first few minutes and
refused to believed that I always got endings right!
That’s definitely flirting, isn’t it? At the very least,
you should have realized it when I had sex with you
AND let you spend the night. Right?! I mean, come
on. You had to have known. You should have known.
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2:16 p.m.
I can’t stop thinking about the one goal I’ve had
since realizing I loved you: to fix you. I desperately
thought if you could just see me the way I’ve seen
you all these years, then maybe you’d realize your
life could and should be so much better. When my
mom told me that Roni was the driver in what you
had said was just a “drunk driving accident,” and
that she was the only person who didn’t make it out
alive, I started to hope it would be a wake-up call. I
had nothing against her, and I wish it didn’t have to
happen like that. But I was hoping that maybe you’d
realize there are women out there who would be
willing to guide you toward the right path. I thought
I was that woman for you. If you could just open
your eyes and see that, then maybe I could save
you. I’ve always wanted to be your savior.
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2:24 p.m.
I’ve always wanted to be someone’s savior. That’s
probably fucked up, I know. But I can’t help it.
For a while, I thought I was in over my head. I
thought I needed to walk away. You kept posting
about Roni on her birthday. Her deathday. Random
days throughout the year when you missed her, or
when something good happened and you regretted
that you couldn’t share this with her. Three years
have passed, but you still miss her.
How could I compete with someone like that?
When she was alive, I knew I could. I knew I could
be better for you. I could’ve been the Romanian one
for you. Our parents moved out of that country to
give us better lives, but I think we all still feel that
pressure to be as “Romanian” as possible, whatever
that means. And your mom always liked me better
anyway.
But when my mom told me that you were the
emergency contact the hospital called, I realized the
competition was won. Roni was the victor. There
was no use trying to compete with a dead girl.
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2:42 p.m.
Part of me—no all of me—thought that maybe I
was starting to take the lead last night. Andrei told
me not to talk to you. He kept me away from you
for most of the night. Andrei did a good job too.
You and I didn’t talk for the first few hours. But
once the music started playing and everyone started
dancing, you grabbed me, and Andrei didn’t know
how to cut in. He’s always been a little
intimidated by you.
The dancing, the spilling our drinks, the way Aunt
Lena tried to steal you away before you twirled her
into Uncle Sebastian’s arms and pulled me back
into you … My goal seemed closer than ever.
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3:01 p.m.
I spent the whole night thinking this was finally it.
You let me in. You CHOSE me. It was MY turn to
come in and fix you. I was going to save you. You
fell asleep with your arm firmly wrapped around
me. I listened to you breathing for a while, making a
mental note that my first step would be to get you to
stop smoking so much. I drifted off thinking of how
excited everyone would be at the next party, when
we arrived together.
I can’t believe you’d fuck me over like this. This
was supposed to be a turning point. For both of us.
And instead you treat me like a dumb slut that you
could have easily just picked up at some club.
You’re probably getting ready to go out even now!
I’ve spent the whole day trying to figure out what
all of this means, and you’re probably not even
thinking about me. You’re probably just waiting
until it’s late enough to go partying. You’ll
probably stay at some other girl’s place tonight,
won’t you? God. You’re never going to change.
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4:13 p.m.
I’m sorry you “ducked out” before I was awake too.
I’m sorry I created an illusion of you that you so
easily shattered. I’m sorry I ever thought I could be
your savior. Waking up alone showed me that you
didn’t want me. You definitely don’t respect me.
And you might need me. Scratch that. You
definitely need me. But if you don’t want me, if
you’d rather just pretend this never happened, then
that is the best way I can help you.
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4:56 p.m.
I don’t even know why I thought I loved you. It’ll
obviously never be reciprocated. You’ve never done
jack shit for me. You suck. You’ve never cared. So
why did I? Sure, I would’ve loved to end up with a
Romanian. Even better—a Romanian I grew up
with, who knew all the crazy people I grew up with.
That’s not a good enough reason. That’s not love, is
it?
Not delivered
5:35 p.m.
At this point, I’ve written you a million messages.
And you won’t read any of them. You probably
won’t read this one either (thank God for airplane
mode).
We are never going to be together. I see that now. I
really want it to happen. I really wish it could. I
wish I could be the one who will help you get over
Roni’s death. I wish I could be the one to pull you
out of your horrible party phase that has gone on for
far too long. I wish I could be the reason you quit
your club promoter “job” and focus on getting
into law school. I wish I could be the one who will
help you take care of your parents when they get
old. I wish, I wish, I wish.
But that will never happen. I see that now. I think
I’ve always seen that. But I got hopeful. And last
night reaffirmed my hope. But your words made it
clear. I was just another hookup to you. And you
will always be the one that got away. I hope I’m
wrong about that, but I’m usually not wrong about
endings.
So this is mine. This is where I decide that this is
over. Not that you were ever part of that. You
already decided that. But I’m deciding it for certain
now. It’s over. You’re free. I’m free.
Not delivered
8:52 p.m.
Te iubesc.
Not delivered
10:26 p.m.
Razvan, no worries. I understand. Won’t say a
word. See you at Easter.
Read at 10:28 p.m.
Nicole Christine Caratas is a Chicago-born fiction writer. She is currently based in Scotland, UK, where she is completing a master’s degree in creative writing at the University of Edinburgh and working on a collection of short stories. Her fiction has appeared in “From Arthur’s Seat,” an anthology of short prose and poetry.