Her Name Is My Name Too

I've been in love before, so much so that there are times I believe I still am...in love with my ex-boyfriend that is. We'd known each other since junior high, same class 7th and 8th grade, and boy did I have a crush on him (he was gorgeous in every way possible). He asked me to our eighth grade prom (I'm from NYC, we had 6th and 8th grade proms) and thanks to our meddlesome homeroom teacher, Ms. Cee (C is for cockblock, who was quite colorist and self-loathing — that's a whole 'nother story), he ended up taking another, fairer skinned girl.

For years — literally years — after that, I wondered what would've become of us had I accompanied him to prom (I'm a January Capricorn, we're obsessive). Would that night have led to us being high school sweethearts, was he the guy of my dreams and we two destined to be together? I idealized both he and the situation into young adulthood, so when we reconnected in our first year of college, I just knew he was the guy for me.

After years of searching for him on social media and inquiring about his whereabouts with middle school buddies that attended his high school, I simply ran into him on Jamaica Avenue, known colloquially as "The Ave." Gadies, Lentleman, Sothers, and Bristers believe me when I tell you, the second we locked eyes — it was on! Facebook friendship: requested and accepted that same day. First date: we saw Wanted starring Angelina Jolie and James McAvoy at the Lincoln Square AMC, then walked the city from 69th Street to 34th. It was summer, June in New York City, unseasonably breezy, and trés romantique. Talking and texting e'ery day and night, and by July, booed up from the shoes up.

We were in our late teens, completely infatuated with each other, and "fucking for real" as SZA so graciously put it. We would go on to be best friends, live together for four years, and ultimately, become hella codependent. It was, essentially, a Nicholas Sparks movie, with people of color. Passion: I experienced my first of many multiple orgasms; grief: my mother lost her very short battle with lung cancer; audaciousness: he dropped out of college to focus on being a playwright — we were thick as thieves and supported each other through everything.

After I finally graduated college, which took six long years (dealing with my mom's death was no walk in the park), I was accepted to UCLA's TFT Certificate Program. I moved to Los Angeles; he didn't...things fell apart. Now, how they fell a part is the meat, potatoes, greens, water, cake, coffee, and tea of this story. We decided to be in an "open relationship" meaning (Destiny's Child), "I was cool with no commitment (wait) let me take that back, it was you so I was with it..." Roughly six months prior, meandering through Manhattan after work, he ran into a girl he went to high school with; her name was Tiffany — my name is Tiffany (remember we two, who went to JHS together, ran into each other meandering through Queens years earlier).

At the time, she had a boyfriend named Michael and my ex, whose name was also Michael, and I were not yet "open." My ex-boyfriend is fine as all hell, like Jesse Williams had a baby with an afro-chioed Jesse Williams, of course she threw him the pussy. He "blocked her" — why not delete her number (hindsight side-eye)? I was a dicknotized fool so I believed him until, suddenly, when we open up our relationship he has a date with none other than "High School Tiff" or "Tiff Two." I begged him to not date a girl with my name (I'm a Tiffany, so I was obviously in love with my name). There were tears, snot, screaming, gagging (I'm a Capricorn, we're dramatic) — I got so hot, literally hot. It was July in LA and I didn't have air conditioning — and he went anyway. This was a clear sign he cared not for my feelings, but I was dicknotized.

Three months into being "open," I'm doing me and whomever else I want (he hated that, of course) and he's "dating around" — this included "Tiff Two." I was 3,000 miles away, so for all I know they were dating exclusively and I was "Tiff Two." After weeks of no talking, hardly texting — I'd reach out and get the voicemail — no call back, no reply (his phone was "broken"). I finally confronted him. I told him, if he no longer wanted our relationship, he needed to end it. This man swore up and down that he still wanted our relationship, was still committed us, and his phone was really just malfunctioning (he had an iPhone, they're trash). I, still dicknotized and only screwing other dudes so I don't feel/look like an idiot being cheated on, BELIEVED HIM!

A week goes by and I get a text, the first text he initiated in a while, that read, and I quote, "I think we should break up, because I don't want to move the LA and I'm tired of hurting your feelings." I'm certain someone "tired of hurting my feelings" wouldn't break up with me in a run-on sentence text, but that's none of my business. Had he just "Hit [me] Wit Da Hee" one week prior, I would've been fine. But, no, he had to convince me we in it for the long hall first (the male ego is so pathetic). I learned a few weeks later, through mutual friends, that he had a new girlfriend, and "Tiff Two" had been officially been promoted to "Tiff One" — at least that's how I felt at the time.

This September will be three years since he sent me that text. I don't know the specific day, because I don't care that much; however, I am beyond thankful his raggedy ass phone was able to shoot me one last SMS. He and his shorty are no longer together, he's gotten fat, is a borderline alcoholic and still hasn't finished one play (He "hey strangered" me recently and I will never turn down good tea). As for me, I'm manifesting my dreams and bobsledding toward my goals, like Malik Yoba in Cool Runnings, and have been for a while. Oh, and as for the picture for this story, the "two Tiffies" are both me. "Tiffy One," dependent on another for love and value and "Tiffy.2," all glown up and hella brand new.