I fucked someone else, so I guess I don’t love you.

I met Ethel at ulpan, this Hebrew immersion class. She was gorgeous—a raver from Paris—and we clicked right away, talking about electronic music. It was on. I couldn’t believe someone like her would even notice me. We made out, and I thought it was magic. Then she left me for her cousin.

He was this Mizrahi singer who had come to Paris to stay with her family while trying to kick heroin. He was in his mid-20s, and she was underage. They ended up hooking up. Looking back now, I’m pretty sure that’s why she ended up in Israel in the first place.

I was crushed, but I was also young and stupid enough to stick around as her friend, even though I wanted more. I yearned for her for years. She’d tell me all about their adventures, like how smoking meth helped her come down after a long night of raving. And she knew. She always knew how I felt—it was in my eyes. And I could tell she knew, but she never said anything.

After a few years of this, I tried to pull away. I told her a few times that I couldn’t see her because it was just too much for me. But one day, she showed up at my house. As she was leaving, she leaned in, kissed me, and just like that, we were in my room, clothes off.

And then my phone started blowing up. My roommate, who was also my coworker, was calling because I was hours late for my shift at this shitty late-night bakery. I did the “right” thing and left for work before anything more could happen.

A week later, she hit me up and asked me to come to her place—and to bring weed. She lived way out in the middle of nowhere. It took me a couple of buses and some sketchy underground taxis to get there. When I finally arrived, she took the weed, rolled a joint, and lit it up. Then, out of nowhere, she looked me dead in the eye and said, “I fucked someone else, so I guess I don’t love you.”

I stormed out and never saw Ethel again.