Close for Comfort

Anthony was the first boy I loved, loathed, and forgave. We met on the high school debate team and embarked on a relationship of classic puppy love. We shared quasi-romantic-getaways via school trips and said "I love you" within six months. We were 16. We meant it.

But our relationship was also plagued with jealousy, distrust, and insecurity. He forbade me to speak with the mutual guy friend to whom I had lost my virginity. I lied to him about my whereabouts on a regular basis. We broke up multiple times only to reconcile hours later. By the time he left for college, a year ahead of me, our relationship had become one of fierce and unhealthy attachment.

It was only a matter of time before reality intervened. In December of my senior year, Harvard offered me early admission. Anthony was the first person I called when I found out; he was also the last person who wanted me to leave California. A week later, he asked me to go to college in San Diego with him and I found myself saying no in a new, unfamiliar voice.

Our breakup was as unplanned and explosive as our relationship itself had been. That Valentine's Day, I surprised Anthony with a visit to San Diego. Four days later, I left for San Francisco, where I kissed a guy friend. A grand romantic gesture followed by a grand betrayal was an appropriate conclusion to a love affair fraught with contradiction. I ended things with Anthony soon after, confessed my unfaithfulness after repeated prodding, and broke my own heart in the process of breaking his.

It took us over a year to regain a semblance of a friendship. On trips home, I saw glimpses of an older Anthony. The friends who used to disapprove of our relationship told me he was different now. Slowly, we took tentative steps toward becoming reacquainted. It was under the California sun the summer after my freshman year that a friendship blossomed.

Back home, I relearned Los Angeles's boulevards, watched Anthony fall for one of my best friends, and tumbled unexpectedly into a new romance myself. Daniel was four years older, an investment banker, and Republican – far from my perfect match. I endeavored to reform his corporate-owned soul, while he treated my heart with a delicacy that college boys lacked. But like the blissfully warm summer, we weren't meant to last. A few weeks before my return to Boston, he abruptly ended things. Rather than feeling hurt, I kicked myself for not beating him to the punch. "I didn't even cry," I told my friends in a fit of anger. They assured me that it would be all right if I did, but I showed off my lack of tears like proof that his breaking up with me didn't hurt. Yet in private, I couldn't ignore the dull ache Daniel had left in my chest. So a few days after my first adult relationship ended, I talked to the love of my youth in a rare moment away from our friends.

I was afraid that crying might mean that I wanted Daniel back, that I was not as strong as I hoped. As I talked to my friend Anthony now – more than a year removed from our own breakup – I realized that I felt sad about Daniel not because I expected things to work out, but because things couldn't work out despite my best intentions. I also realized I would miss him.

I didn't understand that there was a difference between missing and needing someone until I took a look at Anthony. When I had sat in his Mustang more than a year before and cried my throat hoarse while he pleaded with me to change my mind, I was sobbing because this process was unimaginably painful – but also necessary. My tears didn't mean I took back my words.

As I recounted all the reasons why I'd miss Daniel, Anthony put his arm around me and told me it would be OK to cry. And though I had already heard the same from my other friends, I didn't really feel like it was OK until he told me so. So I laid my head on the shoulder of a man who used to be the boy I loved, and I did exactly that.

Lena Chen is a sophomore at Harvard College. E-mail comments to coupling@globe.com.