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“Kirra, I can already feel that this will ruin our friendship if we go any further. Just do whatever you want, but know that I’m not supporting this,” says Rochelle, my friend since high school. At this moment, she has just seen me at my lowest point. We are both sitting at the dining table at her apartment, our eyes glossy from crying. 

“You’re not going to change your decision to meet him anyway,” Rochelle adds. 

I try breathing slowly in hopes that my heart will slow down, but I feel the pulse pounding through my ears. “I know what you’re saying, and I know he’s nowhere good for me, but I have to see him,” I say finally. 

The double digits that I’ve lived with for a decade have finally upgraded with the “1” in the first place, turning into a mature “2,” but I felt indifferent to it. I was twenty . . . that’s it? I always thought I should have a sense of independence at twenty or have had experiences of what it was like being independent. Independence, to me, meant moving out from those who’ve sheltered me. I love my parents, but there’s a point in life where I would have to break away, right? Within three months of my already hectic semester of college, I met someone who made me think about what adulthood and true independence were like. Three months completely changed me and had me questioning my own judgments of whether I was really fit for this life. 

Within a month of getting to know Nathan Bryne, we’d already kissed. This was my first kiss. We were both really drunk, and all I remember was the weird taste of his tongue, his salt and pepper stubble chafing across my skin, and his calloused hand as it combed through the back of my hair. I thoroughly enjoyed it, knowing that I wouldn’t have to worry anymore about if I was a good kisser because I was killing it. It was 11 PM in downtown Manhattan, and no one was around. As we were making out, I accidentally spilled my wine all over Nate, which got him to break away from me finally. He stood up and looked down at the mess. As he looked back up at me, a slow smile crept on his face. Nate’s presence was youthful, but his eyes held his true age. 

“You don’t look forty-three,” I assured him after he hesitantly told me his age. He really didn’t look his age. His physicality and personality made it seem like he was that 30-year-old store manager who you were cool with and was in with the latest trends. I found him really easy to talk to because he seemed so young. When I would express concerns about my insecurities with producing my film, he would assure me not to think negatively about myself. I was doing a great job and was a talented writer. 

I first found Nathan Bryne when I saw him perform in a small theater house. Already, his execution is robust. His loud, booming voice grasped my attention as he flowed through his lines. The audience was filled with friends and family that the cast already knew. Someone next to me asked who I was here to see. I watched him as I said his name proudly: “Nathan.” As the performance ended, I already saw our future of working together, and I could tell he also knew that the moment we first shook hands. 

We spent the whole day together on a stressful mission through 5th Ave to find him a red button-up shirt. After our trip, we found ourselves seated in a cafe that was stiflingly hot, and my freshly brewed latte wasn’t making it any better. But all of my discomfort leaves me as he says the number. I poorly hide my reaction and try to play it off. 

“I don’t want to feel forty-three,” Nathan says. Still looking down, he rapidly taps his tattooed finger against the espresso that I bought him. His hands. His hands were marked with tattoos, almost as if he was drunk one night and got them done on a whim, but somehow, it suited him. There were tattoos on each finger right below the knuckles. I couldn’t help but look down every once in a while. Nathan was an attractive man. I didn’t want to fully admit that to myself or anyone else to preserve my professionalism as a director, but he was, in fact, handsome. He was six foot two and had soft brunette hair that would hang perfectly over his intense green eyes. Every time he smiled, his under eyes would puff up, giving him some innocence. 

This was our first meeting after I cast him in a film for a school project. In my film, he would play my antagonist. We got our red shirt. With his hand tattoos and tough-man demeanor, he would fit the role well, although it didn’t match his sweet and understanding personality. 

As we both stood after sharing our first kiss, Nate let out a low chuckle and cupped his hands on my face. “You’re so beautiful,” he said as he planted small kisses all over my face. He tried to clean off the spilled wine from his wool coat and from my scarf that he had wrapped around his neck. The scarf that I put on him when I asked him to hold my things. The scarf he never returned. Throughout the night, I caught him taking occasional sniffs of the fabric I doused myself in my rose-scented perfume prior, the same perfume I wore when he first confessed to me. The night that I realized I might have stronger feelings for him than I thought. 

It was raining, but we planned to meet at 8. I had my scarf wrapped around my head as some protection, but it wasn’t really helping. Within minutes of standing, the ends of my hair were dripped with rainwater. I was looking down as a pair of black Oxfords stopped right before me. Like me, Nate’s hair was soaked, but he still had a smile on his face. We hugged. “You smell good,” he said, still embracing. It wasn’t a compliment I was used to hearing. I’ve noticed he was always straightforward with his praise. Altogether, I just wasn’t used to hearing them at all, but he was the first person that allowed me to take in these compliments and embrace them. 

We were on our way to an event that I was invited to with a newfound friend, Janice, whom I met with Nate a few days prior. Janice had a refreshing aura that could make one feel good. She had a slight resemblance to Amy Winehouse, my favorite singer. She was an eccentric individual, and her energy entranced me. I already felt myself getting closer to her, but not to the point where I was vulnerable just yet. Unlike me, who was fond of Janice, Nate thought the complete opposite. When we both met her for the first time, he admitted that he disapproved of Janice’s presentation of herself and how she seemed “predatory,” especially towards me. The night we first met Janice, with the lack of trust he had towards her, he invited himself to a spontaneous late-night dinner that Janice and I had planned when he well knew he had work early the next day. He did this in case there was a moment I felt “unsafe” with her, and he explained it to me. I didn’t mind it. If anything, I wanted him there. I liked the idea of his protectiveness towards me that I was a damsel he had to save. 

The event that we were attending together was a series of short performances, and Janice would be featured in one of them. Nate and I sat in the very back of the small theater, and we were just able to catch her in the middle of her monologue. As I saw Janice crushing it, I caught Nate taking quick glances towards me in the corner of my eye, adoring my excitement. 

“Do you have a crush on her?” Nate asked as we sat on a secluded corner of a bustling restaurant after Janice’s event. Patrons at the place were either enjoying cocktails and beers from the bar or the live folk music playing in the back. We had our space to ourselves. He didn’t understand my liking towards her and asked at every opportunity why I was interested in her so much. 

“No, Nate. I’m straight. I can’t just like being friends with someone?” I retorted. I was starting to get antsy. He was asking questions like it was an interrogation, and I had to admit that I liked her because, to him, that had to be the only reason I would want to be around her. 

“I don’t understand why you like Janice, though.” Nate scooches over closer to me. His body was positioned fully toward me. I fiddle with my water cup. I was fond of her because there was something about her that allowed me to be more expressive with myself. Being with her turned me into someone that I couldn’t be with other friends. I felt like a different person when I was with her, and enjoyed it. I was no longer timid and closed off. I was more confident. I told him all of this . . . 

“I just want someone that makes me feel good about myself, you know?” Instantly, a wave of embarrassment hits me. Janice wasn’t here to justify my ramblings. It was just the two of us. I looked down, and suddenly, I felt his two hands across my arm, and they snaked down to my hands—his big, warm, tattooed hands around mine. I tense up. I wanted him to stop only because what he was doing was wrong, but my heart wanted him to keep going and touch me in more places than just my one arm. I look up, and his eyes are like lasers down my soul. They were something I couldn’t look away from. 

“I could be that person,” he says. 

I didn’t expect someone like him to find me attractive, and I was not expecting so much physical contact from him after his confession. I still didn’t want to admit that I might’ve liked him. But I guess my not stopping his advances was enough for him to keep going. I felt like I was in some freakishly vivid dream or like I wasn’t in the right universe. I was hanging out with a man twice my age, and for the past couple of weeks after that, I found his cramped and small studio apartment to be my second abode, where together we would get high on marijuana, or he would serenade me with his guitar playing. He was my escape from my normal. 

I am informing Rochelle about everything, and as expected, she’s strictly against it. “I really think that this might be . . . grooming.” She hesitates, and I cringe at the word. I wonder if this maybe could’ve been an act of manipulation towards me. I’m also trying to come up with possibilities of how it’s not that, and he just . . . likes me. The only thing is, I know that if I admit it to be what it is, it means that I was the naive one. That I’m too innocent and pure that I’m looking past his wrongful actions. 

“I know it’s not conventional, but I really like him.” Now, I don’t know how to fight back or defend myself. Right now, Rochelle sees me as vulnerable enough and that if I do debate, I will be defending the immoral side of society. Rochelle views relationships conservatively, rightfully so. She’s against “hook-up” culture, cheating, and, let alone, big age gaps. Rightfully so. 

“Are you seeing him again?” she asks me. I feel like I’m talking to some parental figure; the only big difference is that I’ll never be talking about this with my actual parents. However, as if talking to my mother, I am scared of Rochelle and worried about how different she will think of me from this moment on. 

“I’m seeing him tomorrow,” I respond. 

“Kirra, I really don’t think that’s a good idea. If anything, you need to cut him off. No forty-year-old should be attracted to someone half his age. And think about who else you’re hurting.” But this is different. That is what I want to say, but realistically, there isn’t anything substantial about this that can justify our being together. I understand why it’s wrong, but I still don’t want to let go of the claim that he actually likes me for me. This perspective overpowers me as our argument grows. 

We’re at it back and forth for what feels like hours—our anxiety’s through the roof. At this point, Rochelle’s doing anything to prevent me from seeing Nate the next day. We repeat ourselves in a circle that we know will never end. It comes to a point where Rochelle knows that I’m not going to change my mind. She’s afraid that if we fight any further, it will break our friendship, which is what happened to her past friendships. I don’t want to repeat the pattern for her. However, all I know is that I’m still set on seeing Nate. Even though I technically “won” the argument, I feel nothing of triumph. The panic still resonates with me from the argument, and even more panic about the future that I would have to meet him again. 

I found myself back at his place the next day. He was already drunk on two shots of whiskey as he splayed out on his bed. I found his bed to be surprisingly comfy, aside from the loose pole that kept breaking at the head of the frame. Sleeping felt like a bat hanging upside down. And that’s what we were at that moment—two bats hanging. 

As I lay with him beside me. I scanned the studio, which I’ve become quite familiar with. I feel pathetic. This is pathetic. I never liked using that word: pathetic. It was like how hate was a very strong word to describe somebody you disliked and only to use it when it truly matters. However, that’s how it felt—a wave of shame, disgust, and all of the above. I felt like the betrayer. The knife that has struck the backs of multiple people. And Nate held the knife, guiding me through his actions. We were a two-person act; granted, he had also betrayed someone. 

I sat up. The sudden movement and the loud creaking made Nate awake from his slumber. In the dark of the room, the light from the streetlamps reflected onto an item that was proudly upright on its stand. It was a picture of Nate and, beside him, another woman holding onto his arms. Wide smiles filled their faces, and their significant height difference was perfect enough that she could nuzzle her face into his chest. 

“How’s Shelley?” I asked. There was a long, torturous silence.

“She’s doing good.”

I’ve never met Shelley. I discovered he was dating someone that night at the restaurant. 

I remember asking him after his confession if he really loved her. 

“I do,” he says after a long hesitation. I had a firm grip on the water glass. The people in the bar started to fade away, and the live band had left for the night. “

If you love her, you wouldn’t be doing any of this.” He stayed silent, which gave me the opportunity to speak up some more. 

“Do you know how wrong this is? Do you know how much you’d be hurting Shelley?” 

He was still quiet, which enraged me at this point. I wanted a debate. I wanted to hear his defense of how cheating on his girlfriend was okay for him. 

“I just find it hard to love just one person,” he finally said. For some reason, as I watched him looking so vulnerable, there was still an inkling of attraction toward him, but it slowly shaved away the more he opened his mouth. Nate didn’t seem to realize how much pain he would’ve been causing Shelley if she found out. He was indifferent to many things; empathy was one. I was fighting with my own demons at that point as well. I didn’t want to completely break things off with him because I wasn’t ready yet. He was my exposure to what I thought love was. I didn’t want his attention on me to stop. It was like a drug. As much as it was hurting me, the small moments of him were enough for me to keep going throughout my days. But I knew the right thing to do was to quit him. I found my fear of letting him go to be stronger than the better future. 

Looking back, I see myself as selfish and immature when I decided to keep our relationship. I was fully aware of who I would be hurting, and I still went through with it. I knew I was guilty. I felt a horrendous amount of that towards my friends and family, and especially Shelley. When Nate and I kissed, I had thought of how fucked up it would seem if Shelley saw us. I envisioned Shelley storming into his apartment while I was in and the hell that could’ve unleashed afterward. 

Being with him was fun for a while until the realization of sin lingered on me afterward. Whenever I wasn’t around him, I became self-conscious. I was worried about how Nate saw me. I was worried he would lose his feelings the moment we said our goodbyes. I was worried about how different Rochelle would see me now that I told her the situation. The complexity of everything was making me spiral and shifting me into someone I didn’t want to be. I was his mistress, which meant to me that I was someone who had no self-respect. 

At this point, our relationship became shaky due to all of my confrontations with his immorality. He seemed to grow tired of my nagging, and he started reaching out to me less. The lack of communication meant that it would’ve been easier for me to cut him off completely. It took me a couple of weeks to gain the courage to call it off. However, I informed him about another short film I was producing and wanted him to be my lead. From the way I was going about it, I made it seem like he was definitely going to get the part. 

Rochelle was not on board. She brought it to my attention that another actor that I happened to overlook seemed like a better fit for the role than Nate. To her, anybody else could’ve been a better fit than Nate. After looking at the other actor’s self-tape, I was hooked. This was great news. However, it also meant that I had to let go of Nate finally. He was still latching onto the promise that I would cast him. 

I already knew I was going to cast the second actor and not Nate. I’ve already announced to my second actor that he has been officially cast. The only thing was, how would I have gone about uncasting Nate after weeks of telling him that he would get it? How do I completely shut it down? Thankfully, it was Nate who made it easier for me. 

A week prior, I texted him asking for his self-tape of his character. I need it by 

tomorrow. I texted.

I’ll try to get it to you by then, he responded. 

He failed to send me the self-tape the next day. 

Hey, you don’t have to send me your self-tape anymore. I’m casting someone else. 

Sending that text sounded like a gavel against a block. I’ve given him too many second chances and opportunities and let him take advantage. I didn’t want to be his initiator. I didn’t want to enable him to be using me anymore. The guilt still hangs above me; I let him be a cheater and a manipulator. I let him get away with many things. The man I was once fully invested in is now pathetic to me. Pathetic. 

K. Sara is a fourth-year Film major at SVA and a director who is currently writing.