The Boyfriend I Never Officially Had, and the Memories I Can’t Remove

On five years inside a gay situationship with no name

Photo by leoon liang on Unsplash

I have never been in an official relationship. My longest situationship lasted for over five years.

We met at the very beginning of the pandemic. It was just a normal weekend night. Sitting in a bar, after two drinks, I was half-drunk, quietly watching the crowd shifting around like spots of light, people I didn’t dare to approach. Just as I was thinking to myself that this would be another lonely night, he walked towards me with a light, brisk step.

After a bit of small talk, he asked if I had ever been to his country. I said yes. He then hesitantly asked if I had ever dated a local there. I said yes. Looking at my slightly flushed cheeks, he paused for a rare moment between his questions, gripping his beer bottle a little tighter. Then he asked, “Was it a guy or a girl?”

Without a second thought, I said, “A guy.” I looked him straight in the eye and asked, “What about you?”

“Me too,” he replied quickly. Finally, we looked at each other and smiled. He stepped closer, our clothes brushing against each other, and he quietly rested a hand on my relaxed shoulder.

The bar got more crowded, so we bought a few more drinks and kept chatting, drifting between the two rooms of the venue. He introduced me to his friends. After talking with the group for a bit, it became just the two of us again. I was completely lost in our conversation; the night felt as brief as a gust of wind brushing past my back. When it was time to leave and I saw my cab turning the corner toward us, the fire in his eyes burned brighter. He anxiously pulled me tightly into his arms and kissed me right there on the busy street.

I couldn’t sleep at all after getting home. I kept playing the kiss over and over in my mind, tracing my upper lip where he had touched. My whole body trembled involuntarily. I didn’t know that happiness could be just as tormenting as loneliness.

This torment lasted for a little while. I didn’t have much dating experience, and when we texted, I wasn’t as relaxed as I was in person. I always sounded too cautious and reserved, too shy to speak my true thoughts, and I failed to capture his heart right away. One day, unable to hold back, I finally gathered the courage to tell him plainly that I missed him.

He replied almost instantly, “Then why don’t you ask me out?” I put my phone down, feeling as if someone had gently tapped me on the head, and it didn’t hurt at all.

We started trying to meet up on weekdays. Since he finished work earlier than me, he would always wait for me at a coffee shop near my office. Carrying our backpacks, we walked through one busy street after another. He told me that back home, you rarely saw high-rise buildings, so everything here felt new and exciting to him. He also said he wanted to work in one of those towering skyscrapers. I asked if working in that kind of environment would make you feel like an ant, under so much pressure.

He smiled and said he liked a challenging life.

Soon, we began meeting more often. We frequently chose different places and restaurants for our dates, our conversations grew deeper, and we touched each other more. We started to become familiar with the layout of each other’s rooms. I didn’t just get to know him better; under his influence, I also grew closer to this city, a place where I had lived for years but had never thought of connecting with so deeply.

Gradually, I also noticed the differences between us. I knew he liked me, but his world was vast. He had many friends I didn’t know, his schedule was always packed, and he liked sharing interesting things with a crowd. His weekends were always reserved for dining with friends, drinking, and moving from one party to another.

It wasn’t until Sunday afternoon that he would show up to see me, carrying a hangover. My world was much smaller, with a fixed circle of friends and people to talk to. There were things I only wanted to share with him, and my life became filled with bitter waiting.

I couldn’t ask for more from him, because I knew his employment contract was only for a year. He might leave the country, or he might move to another city; our time together was limited. Besides, I had once carefully brought up the topic of dating, and he made it clear that he didn’t want a committed relationship. I could only nod and hide my disappointment.

But I couldn’t hide or suppress my feelings. I found myself falling deeper and constantly thinking about him.

Once, I had to go away for a week on business for a film festival. During those days, whenever a movie dragged on, my mind would drift. The screen in front of me would turn into a floating white sheet, with the two of us lying naked on it. When I snapped out of it, I felt hot and restless, not daring to look at the people next to me. Even in the dark, I felt exposed, and nervously wiped the sweat from my face.

I am not good at keeping secrets. I was constantly mentioning him to my friends, bringing him up no matter what we were talking about. My friends were happy for me, but they were also confused. They kept pressing me about what we actually were, whether we were dating, and if we had ever called each other boyfriends.

I always told them we were just dating, not thinking too much about it, and just letting things happen naturally. My friends couldn’t accept this and asked whose idea it was. I turned my face away and said it was a mutual decision.

For a long time, I actually believed that.

I had always been afraid of getting into a serious relationship, not knowing where it would lead. I live in a country where homosexuality is not illegal, but there are no legal protections, and marriage is impossible. I couldn’t muster any optimistic imagination for the future. Our connection depended entirely on our own conscience and passion, and I used to believe those things were fleeting.

But meeting him changed everything. I began to want more, to openly claim him as my own. I couldn’t understand why he was so resistant to defining our relationship, especially since same-sex marriage had been legal in his country for over twenty years.

We couldn’t even talk about it. During my low moments, I couldn’t help but wonder if it was because of me, if I was the reason he had so many unspoken reservations.

But I was only 26 then, still very young. The happiness he brought me far outweighed the slight anxiety in my heart. I loved his firm hugs, I loved him holding my hand on the street, letting his endless warmth wash over me. I loved how, at a friend’s birthday party, the very second the candles were blown out and the lights went off, he would suddenly kiss me in the dark, only to pretend nothing had happened when the lights came back on. The emotional connection I had always craved, he truly gave it to me.

When his contract ended, he found a new job and moved to another city. For the next two years, we kept in touch almost every day. He would send me photos of the gym, and I would send him my daily meals. The first time I didn’t go home for Lunar New Year, I went to see him with immense anticipation.

We squeezed into his tiny rented room, eating dumplings and watching the televised gala on TV. He would sometimes pack his suitcase and fly to see me, canceling gatherings with old friends just to be with me. Day after day, we did things only lovers would do.

Two years went by quickly. When his contract ended and his company decided not to renew it, he called me immediately. I hid in my company’s stairwell, racking my brain to find words of comfort. Hearing the helplessness in his voice, I quickly grabbed the handrail, terrified that I might fall down the stairs.

After a series of setbacks and multiple failed job applications, with his visa about to expire, he had no choice but to return to his home country. The long period of living apart seemed to have numbed my dread of his departure. We met twice before he left. Just like before, we walked side-by-side on the wide streets, with endless things to say, but not a single word was about our future.

It felt as though if we didn’t mention it, our relationship would stay just like this — it would never end.

The next time we met was a year and a half later. I traveled to Europe for a friend’s wedding and wanted to visit him in his hometown. He originally suggested meeting in another city, saying he could make time to find me there. But I insisted on my idea: I wanted to see the place he had shown me countless times on video calls, the place where he grew up, and the apartment he had recently rented and loved.

In his apartment, the tote bag I had given him was hanging up, along with a T-shirt that originally belonged to me. But all the other little knick-knacks I had given him over the years were gone. I felt a bit discouraged, but I didn’t want such a small thing to ruin our rare reunion. For the next few days, he worked during the day while I wandered freely around his city, wanting to see and remember as many places as possible.

After he got off work, we would follow the local custom and grab a drink on the street before dinner. We talked about recent social events and the new job he had spent a whole year trying to get. He was still the same as when we first met, living anxiously through orderly days, but never letting himself get too discouraged.

Sometimes my mind would wander, looking at his face, which still fascinated me, foolishly wondering if he would introduce me to his family and friends, the people I had heard him mention hundreds of times. But then I would remember that I had recently lost my job and was still at a loss about my own future. We were two people who couldn’t help each other, who weren’t even in the same boat.

I knew my feelings were somewhat split, but I had grown mature enough not to let any bad moods show or affect others, especially him. We still laughed and talked, went grocery shopping together, cooked dinner, and walked down street after street, almost on our tiptoes. I loved sitting in his passenger seat, listening to him talk about the city’s history, feeling the pulse of the earth and the buildings.

On the night before I was set to leave, I suggested going to a local gay bar to experience the community atmosphere. He was very reluctant but took me anyway. It turned out it was tiny, only about the size of a single hallway. We didn’t stay long, standing outside to drink a cocktail packed with ice. On the way back, looking at the crowds around us, I felt a little lightheaded and really wanted to hold his hand. But he refused, repeatedly brushing my hand away. I asked him why, but he wouldn’t say anything, even acting a bit angry. He had never been like this before.

Whether I couldn’t separate the past from the present, or whether I couldn’t separate the online version of him from the real one, it didn’t really matter that night. I understood, more or less, that we had reached the end of our relationship.

For the year after I returned, we still talked and occasionally had video calls. Until once, after we hadn’t been in touch for nearly two weeks, he suddenly told me, “I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’ve just started dating someone. We can still be friends.”

I think what hurt most at first wasn’t the quiet, messy end of our relationship, but my inability to accept the word “friend.” He had so many friends, so many that everything we had shared over the years, all the time and emotion I had invested, seemed insignificant. So many that I felt tiny in his world.

It felt like a one-sided breakup. I couldn’t even pour out the sudden wave of embarrassment and pain online, nor could I complain to my friends.

Because I had no standing, no identity. He had never made me any promises; he hadn’t done anything wrong to me. I suppose many people wouldn’t understand why I would invest so much in a relationship that was undefined from the very beginning. It seemed like I only had myself to blame.

I can’t think of a rational explanation either. Maybe I was too pessimistic, living in a repressive social environment with no role models around, unable to see a future for a gay relationship. Or maybe it was quite the opposite, I craved a relationship so desperately, craved love so much that I was willing to accept it in any form, which was why I kept drifting along in this go-with-the-flow relationship.

After turning thirty, I was always worrying about making a living, struggling with the dark moods that had taken root in my body since childhood. I stopped looking at love as something incredibly important, something to keep in mind at all times. When I was lonely and stressed, I would want to chat with him, to know if he was doing well, even silently repeating his name. Over time, I had long come to treat him as my antidote.

I couldn’t keep doing that once someone else was in his life. I couldn’t share the Instagram reels we liked, nor could I cross boundaries and disturb him whenever I wanted. So, I had to do something symbolic: I put away the most visible gifts he had given me over the years and removed the old photo from my phone case.

Only memories cannot be removed. The harder I try to think about them, the fresher they feel, as if they happened just a second ago. Occasionally, when I can’t sleep, I still think of the night we first met. The bar was so lively. When he came close to me, the music in my ears seemed to pause for a brief moment. If I could do it all over again, I would still make the same choice.