When I first moved after college I started talking to a nice boy. He eventually invited me out to dinner and we hit up this cute little Thai restaurant. It was a lovely evening that went on for hours before we both had to head home for the night. We did a little cheek kiss goodbye and promised to speak to each other soon. So, when he hadn’t called three days later, I called him. He didn’t answer. I called again. And again. I left messages and kept my phone close by (like, on my pillow as I slept) so I wouldn’t miss his call. Which never came.

I obviously should have gotten the hint, but I just couldn’t let it go. We had such a great date; how could he just stop talking to me? What did I do wrong? Why would he tell me he’d call if he never planned to? I needed to hear it - I needed to know he wasn’t interested. I needed that closure.

Eventually, which was far too long in any sane person’s book, I gave up and moved on. He wasn’t going to call. I had my closure. Looking back, I realize just how crazy I was. Literally, crazy. No wonder he never called back; he was probably at the police station trying to get a restraining order. But I was young and alone in a giant new city. That boy was the one thing I had to hold onto while I started a new job, found a new apartment and adjusted to life outside of Ann Arbor, Michigan. Read More »