Selina Xu

I caught the final tail of summer, the eddy of fall. And now winter’s coming.

In a matter of fifty days, I feel remade by New York. I marvel at how quickly things change, faster than the seasons, and far more unpredictable — like dice suspended mid-air, then rolling in a clack to reveal a surprise pattern. An invisible hand sorting out the arithmetic improbabilities of my life. Turn back time by fifty days, when I emerged sore and hungry from JFK into the dark night, I couldn’t have imagined any of these. 

It’s hard to put the new experiences into words. There’s, of course, everything that comes with a new job, a new city, a new daily routine. But, surprising to even myself, I’m exploring new emotional frontiers.

I veered somewhat close to romance, in nighttime strolls that map out Manhattan from pier to pier, in the ping-pong rhythm of texting, in mouthfuls of piping hot noodles and bubble tea, on electric bikes whizzing across the Williamsburg bridge, doing carpool karaoke while riding shotgun, gazing at the World Trade Center from practically every possible vantage point. So much of dating is about pantomiming rituals: the ritual of dining together, of walking together, of conversation. Yet, when does it cross over from the ritualistic to the visceral? I still don’t know, even after peering within myself.

And then came the split second of breakage — incredulity, disappointment, anger, hurt. Thereafter, the heaviness of exhaustion, the soft sigh of what-ifs, tearing up at dramatic ballads in the subway, wondering when I would ever fall in love and be loved in return, my heart calcifying and getting lighter, and the episode quieting into still static.

Even in catharsis, there’s a giddiness to writing down the scenes, recounting between swallows of cocktails in West Village, Facetiming friends across cities and timezones, fleshing out the contours of my own desires and pyschology. At last, I truly, truly understand why Taylor Swift dates men — something magical is born from the dregs of implosions.

Looking back, the past fifty days feel crazy. And then I look forward and see the plot of my love life, gossamer-thin, tangled and enmeshed in a web. As always, it’s hanging on just by a thread. But it keeps weaving.