Jessai Flores

To my love, 

As this second Monday in February draws nearer, I feel absolutely and completely overwhelmed. I’m drowning in couples that walk down the street holding hands with infatuation written across their faces. Every place I go is swarmed with people wearing their hearts on their sleeves, boasting anniversaries and declarations of love. And yet my own heart is beating a mile a minute as I sit here and reveal to you what is deeply embedded in my heart: my love for you and everything you’ve given me.

I find it prudent to begin, though, with a morsel of truth: it was you who left me, cold and alone across the street. Some days, I don’t know if I can ever forgive you. We were blessedly together in person for only a few months… was it our long-distance spring relationship that made you leave me? It feels as if you’re twisting a knife in my chest when I see you over there with someone younger. Who knew that being class of twenty-four was considered old these days? I am sulking here in Vanderbilt wondering what I did wrong, and what I could possibly do to make you a part of my life again. I go days without seeing you sometimes, without waking up by your side in the mornings.

I think you will find that I miss you terribly. I see you across the way, taunting me. Deceivingly close, yet ever so far — if only you’d let me in through the front door. Each time I want to see you or just be with you, I have to use a side entrance as if we’re in some kind of clandestine relationship. I don’t want to sneak around when it comes to you. I long for the whole world to know how genuinely happy I am to be with you.

I have never been much of a believer in love at first sight, as you well know, yet thinking back to our first encounter, I am not so sure anymore. I remember precisely the first moment I saw you. Having arrived at night, you were shrouded in darkness, camouflaged in the night sky. The next morning, though, I saw your tower, standing there erect and gleaming in the soft sunlight. From afar, it was nothing short of magnificent, but as I got closer, the intricate detail on the individual sides was simply breathtaking. Even though we lived together for a few months, I still find myself taking pictures of you each time I visit. 

I realize that these have been tumultuous times, and that I haven’t been entirely faithful to you. Nevertheless, I knew you were leaving me before I found solace in someone else over the summer. Someone slightly larger, I might add. Someone with superior cooking skills whose breakfast never disappoints. Someone whose basement is much more polished. Competing with Silliman, my love, is a tough endeavor, but don’t fret. You can never forget your first love. And though I can’t ignore my feelings for that summer love, nor for Vanderbilt, who I’ve been with for several months now, I implore you to understand that I will always love you. 

I understand that some people are bothered by the carillon in your 216-feet-tall tower, by how loudly it rings sometimes. I admit, on occasion, it has roused me from a nap or rudely interrupted me during a meeting — in these rare moments, I am rife with hatred. But this feeling is more often than not short-lived. The twice-daily musical interludes are actually quite beautiful, and I know many would certainly agree. For those who don’t, it would be impossible for them to deny that you are by far the most beautiful. No one can even compare, especially not your neighbor: Saybrook.

What I am asking for is a blank slate, my love. We’ve both made our share of mistakes in this relationship — me with my Silliman affair and you with your class of twenty-five — but maybe we can move forward. Maybe we can have what we’ve both always wanted. A full year together. Maybe even two. Some hot breakfast options. A more open-concept basement. Maybe anything is possible, but only if my love is requited.

So, tell me, Branford, do you love me like I do?

Of course, I love your boundless beauty as it towers over all the rest in gothic perfection. But mostly, I love the little things about you, the quirks that make you … you. The way the door to your library squeaks and creaks like a freight train, waking up every resident of Calliope courtyard and peeving everybody in the library. How there’s an unspoken rule in the library that only one person and their friends can occupy a room. How the bees in the summer time are incapable of stinging you. How I still don’t know whether the stone benches exist for the sake of art or for convenience. How your back wall is actually a part of Saybrook, but we have the privilege of enjoying the view. How there is a water fountain at least somewhere in the building unlike some other dorms. And how the family of squirrels can sometimes be a little too people-friendly.

You have a quaint gym, which, although claustrophobic, is awfully convenient. As if you knew exactly what I needed, a boxing bag was installed this year, something for which I am forever grateful. A ping pong table lies in your basement game room, calling my name as of late and inspiring an abundance of procrastination. I have spent at least two dozen hours in your movie theater and whipped up a sundry of baked goods in your kitchen. The exposed pipes of the basement ceiling are no longer disturbing but quaint and whimsical. And then there are your piadinas: a hit or miss lately, if I’m being frank. But every once in a while, they can satisfy a specific hunger or add a little Italian spice to my plate. 

It would be untoward of me to not mention at this point your people — my family — who make loving you worthwhile, who make the time I spend with you a joy and not a burden. I remember those warm September days when you, me, and our family would all lounge on the Adirondack chairs atop the fresh grass. We’d all bask in the sun and say in unison, “Harkness still doesn’t look real.” And to this day, I can barely believe it myself.

Our relationship was not perfect at the start and, as of right now, we seem to be teetering on the edge. I sincerely hope, from the bottom of my heart, that we can reconcile sometime in the future. Maybe not now. Maybe not tomorrow. But by next year, if you still love me, we will find each other. I believe in you and I wholeheartedly believe in us.

Vanderbilt and Silliman will always be a part of me just as the class of twenty-five will always be attached to you. This we cannot change. We, however, can change our ways and devote time to each other as when we first met. Send me a thousand love letters. Let me run with a thousand squirrels in the main courtyard. Make me a thousand mugs in the ceramics studio. Just, please, Branford, tell me that you love me, too.

With love,

Your devoted squirrel