MONDAY
Things I still need to do: cancel my car insurance, cancel my gym membership. Oh, I need to sell my car… do I have the title? Also, I should start packing. One week to go.
It’s 9. No, 10. His hand is around my waist as we tower 550 feet above the glittering lights of Las Vegas. We kissed for the first time while waiting for the High Roller to load.
I’m determined to love my home again. All of my friends have changed, things have shifted. No, I haven’t dealt with it well. I refuse to leave Las Vegas hating it—it’s my only home, my saving grace. I have one week to fall in love with it again.
We run hand-in-hand through the Flamingo, getting lost among the flashing slots. Out of breath, laughing, looking for reality-show cocktail bars. We collect ourselves as we enter the overpriced lounge. We sit at the bar, gazing at the flamingo décor around us. We talk about art, photography, pottery. We talk about life, travel, work, and passion. Time disappears.
TUESDAY
“I’m off at 8:30ish. I’ll text you when I’m off?”
I still have my to-do list. Can’t deviate from the list. Start packing. Did you call the car insurance company yet?
We went to sleep far past 3 a.m., and I have a suspicion the sun hasn’t been up long. I have to pick up my car from the Arts District before I get a ticket. I sit on his bed while I call an Uber.
Is my shit even going to fit in the suitcases? How did I accumulate so much? Can I just not pay the car insurance, or does that hurt my credit? Does my credit even matter now? I really wish people would stop texting “ARE YOU EXCITED YET?”
“See you later, sweets.”
WEDNESDAY
Twenty-four hours later, we repeat.
“Are you sick of me yet?”
“Absolutely not.”
I drive off into the desert, my dearest Nevada. We talked about how it takes a special person to love the desert—the desolation, the brutal heat, the vast emptiness of it all. It didn’t take me long to fall in love with it. I have to soak it in now. When will I see it again?
THURSDAY
I lay my head on his chest, slowly bobbing up and down with his breath. I look up to see his brown eyes and long lashes flicker as he talks. I grab his hand—my milky skin contrasted against his olive tone. I tell him things I normally wouldn’t tell anyone else. I’ve known him for four days.
A mess of timing, but it couldn’t have been written better. Just when I think, “Is it worth it?” Just before I embark on the journey of a lifetime—one that very few people get to experience—and I’m tempted to trade it all for the normalcy of a life everyone else gets to have.
Or am I just playing pretend for a week?
FRIDAY
The text “When can I see you again?” swirls around my mind more than it should. The reality of this ending is starting to hit.
SATURDAY
The last-minute details are handled. The suitcases are packed, minus what I need for the next couple days. My airplane bag, full of remedies for a 16-hour flight, is ready to go. But I don’t feel ready. I don’t want this pretend life to end. Maybe if I could just delay it for a week. Maybe if I could have 24 extra hours with him- would it be worth it?
Goddamn circus.
SUNDAY
“Give me your phone. Let me take your picture in your car so you can remember.”
My car is almost gone. I’ve signed the paperwork, now all I have to do is drive it into the garage. He knows how sad I am and sits with me through all the infuriating steps of CarMax. The adventures I took in that car, the places we went. The people who rode in it with me, some of whom I’ll never see again. It’s silly to be upset over a car, but after my apartment and my home, it was the last vestige of me. I’m a full nomad now. Nothing left to my name. Some will say it’s freeing. I find it, in some ways, depressing.
I take him to his first Cirque du Soleil show, Mystère. There’s a pang in my stomach, knowing I’m returning to work tomorrow. That’s what I wanted, right? Don’t think about it. Enjoy this moment.
We later return to the Velveteen Rabbit, where we first met. I insist on jumping into the photo booth, and he obliges. Cocktails in hand, giggles abound. Two short minutes later, a little photo strip: a bright red background, us looking bewildered as the camera starts, and kissing in the third frame, a painful reminder of what was never to become.
MONDAY
It’s six minutes to the airport. He’s tried to hold my hand, but I refused.
I was up all night. Was it crazy to think about starting a long-distance relationship with a Tinder date I’ve known for a week- just hours before boarding a plane halfway across the world? His rational thinking sent me over the edge. I left the bed and curled up on the living room couch, burying my face into my bony knees as tears dripped down my legs.
It’s all a blur; 17 hours, no sleep. He came and sat next to me, held my hand, and fell asleep beside me. I got up to finish last-minute packing, shoving the dirty socks I wore that night into whatever crevice I could find in my suitcase. My eyes, swollen from crying and exhaustion.
Fuck. I never finished that whiskey. He can have it. Shit, I have to throw away the oranges I bought and didn’t eat. Did I get the boarding pass on my phone? I wish I had made more dinners while I had this kitchen.
It’s five minutes to the airport. We sit in silence. Tears slowly slide down my cheeks. If only the well-wishers of my journey could see me now, they’d be so disappointed. But they’ll never understand the other side of the coin, the dark and jagged side. The one we don’t talk about often. The loneliness. The nights spent crying with no one to turn to. The normalcy we all long for from time to time. The life they have, a home, a loving partner, is the one I fear I’ll never find.
It’s four minutes to the airport. It’s now or never. I may never see him again. Get over your pride and just grab his fucking hand.
I reach over, wordless, and hold on as tightly as I can. He does the same, his fingertips turning white as they clasp around mine. I have four minutes to enjoy this: the life I gave up so I could follow a dream. One I hope is worth it, as we pull into international departures and into the great unknown.