I was 21 years old and working as managing editor of a weekly newspaper. I had just gotten out of a three-year relationship and I wasn’t dating anyone. As I worked alone at my office on a Sunday afternoon, a young woman dropped by to see me.
She was on her way back to her college after a weekend visit home. We had had a flirtatious relationship but it hadn’t been anything serious. Now that I wasn’t dating anyone, though, she had come to see whether I’d be interested in turning our flirtation into something serious.
I felt conflicted. I was attracted to her, but I knew I wasn’t going to date her. Maybe I wasn’t really completely over the relationship that had just ended, I told her. She understood. I kissed her as she left and we remained friends.
We both moved on to other relationships and I didn’t think any more about the conversation. I assumed she hadn’t thought about it for years, either. About a month ago, I realized that I lied to her that day — but only because I had lied to myself.
I decided it was time to call her — after all these years — and explain what had really happened.

Words I wrote as idealistic teen suggest I’m still the same inside
A year after surreal experience of surgery, I’m still happy to be alive
Life as misunderstood stranger feels like walking through a fog
Why do we stay in prison when there’s no lock holding us there?
‘Make no little plans. They have no magic to stir men’s blood… Make big plans’
We never get enough of whatever lets us feel safe being ourselves
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More dependence ahead now that half of households get U.S. checks