No 1: BALLAD OF A HOPEFUL ROMANTIC

PHOTO BY LUCIA AUERBACH

REBECCA KOPELMAN

You keep dreaming about him. It’s the same every time: you’re sitting together in your bathtub, sloped against the cool sides, and he tries to kiss you. When you dodge him, he asks why, gripping your jaw tightly enough that you can’t look away.

“I’m the one,” he tells you, choking back a sob, “I’m your soulmate, you cunt.” He tries again, and you push him away, hearing his skull crack lightly against the porcelain.

“I’m not yours, though,” you say with disdain. You truly hate him in this moment–you don’t know how you ever loved him–he’s so unbearably ugly.

“That’s okay,” he says, “what’s wrong with that?”

You just stand to look at yourself in the mirror. I’m beautiful, you think, kissing your reflection. Then, you swiftly kick his teeth in and wake up tasting blood. 

Early one morning, you roll over in bed to a message from him. i do still love u, by the way, it reads. Ur a good person. Sorry i hurt u. 

You consider tearing into him at this point, asking who the fuck he thinks he is, where he gets off telling you who you are, but instead you tell him it’s okay, that you’re always here if he needs anything.

Honestly, you don’t think of him much anymore. Sometimes, when you hear the Dylan song he used to play or sense a boy’s gentle hand on your shoulder while you rail a line, you ache with something a bit crueler than nostalgia–but those moments are few and far between these days.