Page 1 of Love in Focus

True love doesn’t exist. Or, at least, I’m not sure if it exists for me.

I know that’s a grim statement coming from someone who writes for a romantic advice column. But I’m a realist. And I’m human, too. I’m not some wise, omniscient fairy godmother who doesn’t have her own fucked-up love life to worry about.

In college, I fell deeply in love with my roommate, Celeste. I didn’t even know I was bi until we met, and I loved her so much I was ready to come out to my very traditional Korean parents and possibly upend my entire life, just for her. But then the next year, Celeste not only dumped me through a text, but also moved back home to Seoul without any explanation whatsoever.

Then I met James, who I thought was the One. We dated seven years and got engaged. And even after all that, on one random, rainy day, he said he didn’t love me anymore.

The beauty of being bi, I learned, is that you can get rejected by both womenandmen.

I press my forehead to the cold surface of the Muni train window. The rain’s really coming down now, persistent and miserable. After living in sunny Southern California for the first twenty-two years of my life, I find San Francisco’s wet season to be unbearable. Seven years of living here, and I still hate the cold rain and fog, which makes it seem colder than the fifty something degrees it really is.

In college, people called the journey home after a hookup the “walk of shame.” Back then, getting caught doing the walk seemed like the worst thing ever, which, in hindsight, was pretty sad, because why should anyone be ashamed of having a sex life? But whatever shame I felt then is nothing compared to the utterly soul-crushing sense of failure I feel now on this train, on my way to crash on my friends’ couch at age twenty-nine with a cardboard box filled with my stuff.

Half of my friends are engaged or married, while most of the rest are in long, committed relationships. Some even already have kids. Sure, a few are single, but a lot of those friends are uncoupled by choice. Meanwhile, I thought I’d bemarriedby next year. Instead, here I am, newly singleandwithout even my own place to call home. A rogue car spinning off the track as the others race past.

When I tearfully asked for—no,demanded—an explanation, James just frowned and apologized, saying he was sorry he didn’t realize sooner he didn’t want to marry me. And then, in an almost fugue state, I gave him back myring, dumped all my favorite clothes and belongings in a box, and left. Because I didn’t want to waste even another second with yet another person who clearly didn’t want to be with me.

The train slows down to let people off at the next stop, and I close my eyes and try to look on the bright side. At least we’re breaking up now, before we got married. I’ve heard enough horror stories through my relationship column to know it’s much better to separate while we’re engaged than to have to file for divorce later.

But as much as I try to be positive, when the train starts speeding up again, my thoughts spiral, and I think about how Idon’t knowwhat went wrong. One moment, James and I were happy and talking about wedding venues, and then the next, I was putting my things in a box.

Maybe there’s something wrong with me. Maybe I have a bigMEANT TO BE FOREVER ALONEsign on my forehead that everyone can see except me. Whatever the reason, as much as I love love and made a whole career out of it, in my personal life, I give love my all, only for other people to decide they don’t want to be with me. Well, romantically at least.

In the realm of friendship, though, I’m thankfully blessed. When I texted my best friends, Val and Kiara, about what happened, they immediately offered to let me crash at their apartment.

Come on over, girl, Kiara had replied.There’s always space on Clementine for you.

Clementine is the name of Kiara’s atrociously orange sofa, the one she managed to acquire in college for only fivedollars. The legend goes that she bought the couch as a joke but never had the heart to get rid of it afterward. I’ve sat on it whenever I came over, and it seemed comfy enough. And apparently people sleep on it all the time whenever they have guests from out of town, so hopefully it’ll be fine.

Thankfully, the rain stops by the time I get off the train and walk to the apartment with my box. The Inner Sunset, my friends’ neighborhood, is on the opposite side of the city from where I lived with James, but it’s still much closer than Irvine, in Southern California, where my parents are.

I’ve been to Kiara and Val’s place plenty of times before, enough to know where to turn and which hill to climb. But I’ve never been here at night. Compared to the perpetually loud streets and brightly lit high-rises of my old neighborhood, my friends’ street is dimly lit and quiet. Aside from the fleeting headlights of passing cars, the only sources of light are the streetlamps that dot the sidewalk and the occasionally uncovered windows of people’s homes. After living near the hustle and bustle of the Financial District and Chinatown, I find the sudden silence jarring.

“Hey!” Kiara waves at me from where she’s standing in the doorway to her building. She’s holding the door open, and light filters out from the hall, casting a warm, faint glow on her pink braids and brown skin. When she sees my face, her expression softens, and she approaches me with her arms outstretched.

“Come here, baby,” she says.

Tears erupt from the corners of my eyes as we hug. During the train ride, I naively thought I was done crying.But now that I’m in the refuge of Kiara’s arms, uncontrollable sobs rack my body. Waves of grief hit me one after another, each one leaving me emptier than the last.

“You’re okay,” Kiara says, gently patting my back. “Good riddance to him! He’s a complete mess. I still can’t believe he couldn’t even give you a straight answer for why he’s breaking up with you.”

Val steps forward from behind Kiara to join our group hug. A direct contrast to Kiara’s cute white blouse and pink skirt, Val’s in a black turtleneck, khaki pants, and combat boots that, along with her fade haircut, make her look like she’s about to report to basic training. They can’t be more different, and yet they give off the same loving energy, incredibly in sync with each other in a way that only the luckiest couples are.

“You’re all right, kid,” Val says. “James was only dragging you down. There are lots of other menandwomen out there for you. Or even nonbinary folk! The world is your oyster.”

I know her well enough to get that she’s channeling her suburban white stepdad, Bill, to try to make me laugh. It’s a bit she likes to do sometimes, since the phrases he commonly uses sound ridiculous coming from a petite, Mexican butch like her. And I’d be cackling, too, if I didn’t feel so hollowed out inside.

Kiara pulls away and says, “Okay, so… we should go back inside before our neighbor throws a shoe at us.”

I blink away tears. “Is that a real problem you guys have had?”

“Yeah… they hate us. Not everyone appreciates our spontaneous EDM parties.”

“Why pay to rave when you can have a rave for free at home?” Val adds with a shrug. “Besides, I like not having to leave the apartment or deal with lots of people.”

A small laugh finally escapes my mouth. Even though Kiara and Val are very different, they’re still two peas in the same chaotic, but good, pod.

Val grabs one side of my box and tries to lift it up. “Geez!” she hisses. “How did you bring this heavy thing across the city? And walk up and down the hills?”

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