Nice While It Lasted

Picture of an unclothed, dark haired barbie bound up in ropes.

By. Hala Karim

We have limited control over who comes and goes in our lives. If someone wants out, we can’t beg them to stay, even if it means a light permanently dims with their departure. As the titular character on Bojack Horseman observed, that’s not a friendship. That’s a hostage situation. Still, we feel impelled to make theatrical last ditch efforts to drag a loved one back as they’re exiting the stage. We rack our brains wondering if there is something, anything we could do to make them turn around. Even a successful effort of pleading or persuading will result in a presence that will sting and breed resentment. We try to rationalize and say anything is better than the arresting emptiness of their egress. We brace ourselves before descending into the unknown, alone. 

It feels dumb and trivial to write about personal relationships. Condemning our authoritarian state or America’s military industrial complex feels much more pressing, much more vital, and oddly--way easier. It’s taxing trying to parse through emotions and memories to determine their significance. It’s harder still to piece together a written narrative out of moments that were largely felt rather than lived. But few experiences are more universal or more relentless than the life shattering earthquake that is heartbreak and rejection. Writing allows readers to connect, and in doing so, minimizes our isolation. It allows us to process our emotions. In a big way, writing is therapy. And it’s way cheaper, so we’re doing it this way.

 Look. I would have loved to dodge a bullet by not falling for a married guy. On my list of dreams and ambitions, that was nowhere near the top. At 29, I was finally fumbling towards being a fully functioning adult with a decent job and a steady routine. After years of resistance, I tried molding into what I envisioned normal adulthood to be, and I swore off getting involved in relationships that did not serve that vision. But some current of chaos pulled me under. I’ve often wondered if I subconsciously sabotage any semblance of normalcy I’ve constructed. That would certainly explain my inadvisable attraction to my very married coworker, who for the purpose of this piece I will refer to as “Married Guy.”

Married Guy’s quirk is doodling intricate, surrealist drawings during meetings. It’s one of his many quirks, I would come to learn, but it’s the first one I noticed. As a new employee overwhelmed by the excess of information hurled in my direction, I derived some peace and calm in watching him draw. Nothing else exceptionally noteworthy struck me about this man over a decade my senior. I found the nasally flair in his voice endearing, like a tolerable take on Lin-Manuel Miranda with far fewer raps about The Constitution. In fact, I would wager a full 100% decrease in Constitution raps with Married Guy. Perhaps that’s what I found so endearing. Over time, I learned that he was a writer, like me. He self-published comics, short works, RPG stories. A creative type, glasses-beard-and-all, which in my book is absolutely lethal. Thanks to years of experience with a wide array of terrible excuses for men, my brain is conveniently wired to classify artistic, cis white men as the narcissistic, self-important frauds they are, but unfortunately, it suffered a devastating network error this time. RIP, my brain. He made some nerdy, throwaway joke about paragraph transitions, of all things, that I couldn’t stop giggling about for hours. I guess I’m really showing face in regards to my own nerdiness here. IT WAS FUNNY. And when I discovered his leftist political leanings? Folks, I was done for.

What evolved was a promising, working friendship. We followed each other across social media platforms. I peaked at his past published stories. While I didn’t find the content of the works particularly engrossing, I respected his tenacity in his creative endeavors all the same. I saw that he was married with kids. Cool, good for him. We emailed each other strictly for professional reasons. And then we emailed each other for less professional reasons. I was delighted (a favorite word of his) to find someone in a new work environment with whom I wouldn’t have to force a friendship. He was someone I was genuinely interested in knowing. And in the workplace, that can be a rarity.

It’s difficult to pinpoint when exactly our friendship flourished into a crush. As it did, I was elated to receive a text from him, every word emitting absolute cosmic significance. I’d find reasons to text him. His morning or afternoon visits to my room at work became more frequent. As much as I adored our talks, I became increasingly nervous with each one and spent as much time engaged in conversation as I did worrying about whether I sounded like an incomprehensible moron because I hadn’t had my morning coffee yet or if I sounded like an incomprehensible moron because I’d had too much coffee already. You know, worries you have when you think someone is too good for this world and are quietly wondering why they would ever spend time with you. We bonded over our shared hatred of Ayn Rand, love of Radiohead and Arcade Fire, and our mutual relation to a Barnes and Nobles branch in Columbus. He’d worked there; I frequented there as a teenager who had zero other weekend night plans.

I need to underscore how much Ayn Rand sucks here, because it’s a lot.

Moving on.

The inception of a crush is concurrently so euphoric, so full of hope, and so goddamn heart-wrenching. I’ve found this to be particularly true when the person of interest happens to be married and seemingly monogamous. It’s also especially true when the crush is unrequited. At least, I thought it was unrequited at first, and I tried to contain it. But during one of his visits, he brought me the sequel to Persepolis. I had “borrowed” (read: “stole”) a copy of the first one I’d found somewhere in the building. There’s nothing especially romantic about the graphic novel detailing a girl’s coming of age narrative during the Iranian revolution, but something about that gesture, him jokingly accusing me of theft and then pulling the book out of his jacket for me. Tchaikovsky’s “Romeo and Juliet” might as well have set the backdrop to this scene, to the groans, eyerolls, and barfs of viewers everywhere. I remember that visit vividly; it ended with me loudly defending theft from major corporations as he dared question my moral compass while shuffling out the door. I wondered if I came off as charming or mildly intimidating. I hoped it was both.

You know how when you’re an adult forced into monotonous drudgery, overwhelmed with responsibilities and obligations just to stay afloat, the crushing boot of capitalism effectively numbs all emotion so that you can only faintly remember the last time you were truly happy? This crush was the antithesis of that.

But a crush of such magnitude and friction doesn’t take too long to erupt. What once evoked pure, unfiltered euphoria now produced small, but perceptible waves of jealousy and anger. And confusion. So much goddamn confusion. I consider myself to be rather perceptive, and it just seemed like the guy liked me back. But he was married. But he liked all my tweets (and they were good tweets, too). But he just posted a picture of him and his wife at a party on Facebook. But he messaged me again, although I had passive aggressively ignored his last three texts. And the way he looked into my stupid, drunken eyes at the Christmas party as if he were holding something back... Was he not monogamous? Was he just a nice guy whose niceness I had been reading too much into? Still, the frequent, flirtatious interactions weren’t of the “nice guy” realm. After exploding with envy seeing another picture on Facebook, I caved. “I can’t do this anymore! I have feelings for you!” I dramatically proclaimed. Let it be known that if I have something to proclaim, it will be done dramatically. A couple days later, my intuition proved to be fully intact. I was right. The crush was mutual. But the facts remained. He was married-- happily married, in his words. And that marriage was monogamous, though he sure could have fooled me.

Let me pause briefly. You know how some people process everything through the lens of Harry Potter? I’m like that, but with a show about a talking horse. The very same horse I mentioned in the first paragraph.

The last scene in the series finale of Bojack Horseman sees Bojack and Diane, estranged for some time, sitting on another Los Angeles roof, having the last of their many roof talks. Filling a lull in the conversation, Bojack laughs, “Wouldn’t it be funny if this night was the last time we ever talked to each other?” Without offering a response, Diane averts her gaze to confirm what Bojack must have known to be true. This would indeed be the last time they would ever talk to each other, at least, intentionally. A persistent voice in my head knew that Married Guy and I were heading, at breakneck pace, for doom. There would be a day when Whatever We Had would end. Perhaps my novelty would wear off and he would find his way back to the straight and narrow path after being so foolishly distracted. Eventually, we would stop speaking, whether by force or volition, and it would stay that devastating way forever. You know, some people don’t read that scene as being the last time Bojack and Diane talk. I guess that’s up for interpretation. I guess it’s always nice to cling on to some shred of hope.

Guided by integrity, or guilt, or perhaps both, Married Guy divulged our mutual attraction to his Pastor Wife. I was relieved he did. Well, the story he first presented maintained that one of his silly coworkers had a crush on him, and he just didn’t know what to do about it. It sure is tough when someone is attracted to you and you just can’t fend them off. That, of course, wasn’t the whole story. But we all make mistakes. And full candor about such a sensitive topic is hard. In due time, the truth was laid bare.  He’d even asked a couple times if she might be willing to support a limited open relationship. “Limited” is the operating word here. Married Guy explicitly told me that we wouldn’t be able to enter any sort of relationship without the approval of his wife, which I understood. But here’s the thing. We’d already had an emotional relationship for months. It wasn’t lost on me that he was requesting permission for something that already existed in nearly full scale. That proposition, you might be surprised to hear, was met with a hard pass. Followed by a louder hard pass. A decades-long established, monogamous relationship would not change course now. The only option available was to Get Over It. And that didn’t seem very fair. Or plausible.

Being the Super Woke Communist Millennial that I am and strive to be every day, I subscribe to the notion that a couple can have a loving, committed relationship built on a foundation of trust and mutual understanding and still be attracted to people outside the parameters of the relationship. I mean, on that note, even strictly monogamous people in healthy, functioning relationships agree. The disagreement lies in acting on it. Should a person in a relationship, in a marriage, reject acting on all attraction outright on the basis that they’re already coupled? That seems stifling to me. Should all emotional and physical needs be met by one person? Certainly, that isn’t all a long-standing relationship is. Our quality of life can enhance with the addition of people to whom we have strong connections who aren’t our primary partner. The counterargument, as it has been explained to me, is that it’s just not for some (read: most) people. Navigating insecurity and jealousy takes hard, concentrated effort and constant communication. And I understand. Okay, I don’t fully understand, but it’s all around me. And it stands as a dominating societal norm that controls my own life choices and options. So, I operate like I understand while mitigating my own suffering.

Obsessions are objectively less fun and cute than crushes. As with any compulsion or addiction, they can be ruinous, but some fleeting, ephemeral high reels us in time and again. Being forbidden from acting on mutual feelings doesn’t do much to shut them down. From personal experience, I can attest that it has an absolute adverse effect. My attraction intensified dangerously. I can’t speak for Married Guy, but from what he told me, his obsession mirrored mine. We texted all throughout the day at work, then at home at night. Even a small lapse in time without contact would be cause for concern and had the capacity to plunge me into worry. If I wasn’t talking to him, I was thinking about him. Any song we both enjoyed would remind me of him, naturally. This went on for months and exacerbated with time. Now, I fully acknowledge that this isn’t healthy. Obsessions distract us from living a full life, tending to creative projects, nurturing important friendships, among other things. Married Guy had a wife he was neglecting, and she did not deserve that. I do think the obsession could have been avoided, and I don’t think it had to come to cutting each other out. In a world full of insufferable jerks and unbearable monsters, finding someone that elicits such joy is scarce and unique and should be treasured. Cutting ties with that person seems criminal.

Married Guy resolved to make the Right Choice and cut off all contact while beginning therapy to navigate and overcome his fixation. It was best for both of us, he explained. It sure didn’t feel like the best to me, but I wouldn’t deprive him of what he wanted. While I understood, from some skewed, funhouse mirror angle, I couldn’t and can’t accept that Whatever We Had was wrong and necessitated permanent dissolution. But my feelings on this matter were immaterial. This unilateral decision was the best choice. For him. I had no place to argue.

To be cast aside and forced into a vow of silence is a searing pain that does not subside. It does not respond to treatment. That is to know that someone’s life benefits in your absence.  In silence, I was told that Whatever We Had did not matter. I was simply a bump in the road. A hiccup. A misstep. They could wash their hands of me and carry on, recommitted in matrimony. I’d been reduced to someone’s marital mistake, a learning curve. And, boy. They seem to be doing great. Their marriage is stronger after overcoming this Bad Thing. Together. Meanwhile, I get to battle the monsters of my own grief. And they don’t go away.

What would I say to him if we did speak? What would I say that I haven’t said dozens of times before? You told me you were making progress. You told me you were disappointed that I hadn’t. You’re all better now, and I should be happy for you. Am I a bad person for not being happy? You wanted the same for me.  I guess that does, in fact, make me the asshole. But, no. I haven’t made much progress with the vow of silence. My thoughts are still inundated by him and compounded by what I feel to be a pretty shitty injustice. He didn’t have to care about my trauma, and he shouldn’t have to. That’s not his burden to handle.

Grief doesn’t dissipate; it morphs. It contorts and twists and bends. Some moments it screams, and in others, it whispers. But it’s always there. I forgot which smart sounding person said that at first, you’re in grief, and then grief is in you. I haven’t stepped foot out of the first part. Every time I see his name on Facebook or mentioned in a work email or aloud by a coworker, all my pain bubbles to the surface. The longer we are separated by time and space, the tighter my grip on Whatever We Had grows. I want to hold on to that so badly, even if it only meant something to me. For all it was muddied and racked with guilt, then dismissed as if it were just another inconsequential affair, Whatever We Had was powerfully felt and valid.

Alright, it’s time to revisit the horse show.

Before Bojack returns to his maximum security prison cell, each of his closest friends gives him their own personal sendoff. Todd, whose relationship with Bojack never fully recovered after recurrent letdowns and general toxicity, takes his buddy down to the beach to get some air during a party. While musing on the meaning of art, Todd profoundly observes that art is defined more by audience interpretation than artist’s intent. Matching this flash of genius with more characteristic goofiness, Todd concludes absently, “That’s why it’s called art.” In a rare instance that gives his friend due credit, Bojack admits Todd had indeed made a shrewd point but quickly lost focus. “Oh well!” Todd exclaims. “It was nice while it lasted!” “Sure. “It was nice while it lasted.” Bojack might be alluding to Todd’s friendship before his contempt resulted in it unraveling. So, I don’t know what will happen with Married Guy. Maybe we will talk again. Maybe we won’t. Maybe we will get to a place where our exchanges aren’t dripping with scorn. But what was once a source of unrivaled joy and exhilaration that consumed hours, days, weeks, then months is now tainted by shattered trust, and frankly, trauma. Whatever We Had is dead, and it won’t come back in its original form, and I can mourn that.

But, sure. It was nice while it lasted.

Hala stands wearing a white hoodie with the words “zero million followers,” sunglasses and a dark haired ponytail.

Hala K. is a social activist. She believes that black lives matter and no human is illegal. She hates capitalism and loves to write. Her instagram is @helloiamhala