Walking out the door with your bags,

I miss you more than I ever knew I could. When I think back to our interactions, I’m reminded of the taste of watermelon on your lips and the smell of citrus in your hair.

You introduced me to Clairo’s inevitable, catastrophic “Bags” before I even understood what lesbian culture was. You wore matching green overalls and bucket hats in typical pre-pandemic, 2020 fashion, and you had an unhealthy obsession with all things frogs. You worked constantly, saving for God knows what—a new car, college funds, a poorly-sketched lily tattoo. You had high-top, red-laced Converse and an attitude to match, and though you were hardly five foot three, the amount of control you had over me made me think you were at least seven feet tall.

Every second counts, I don’t want to talk to you anymore.

On Friday nights, after our shared shift at Goodwill, I’d drive over to your place in my eggshell 2005 Buick, the backseat smelling of McDonald’s wrappers and wet rain. You’d connect your phone to the Bluetooth radio, kick your feet up on the dash, and vent about your kinda-boyfriend for the next half hour. Sometimes, I’d do loops around the neighborhood, my hands glued to the 3 and 12 o’clock positions. If I felt bold enough, I’d watch you through the rearview mirror, my chest painfully tight, my mouth dry. You’d ask for my feedback—on Brian, on Matt, on David—men whose names I can hardly remember, and I’d think terrible, nasty things about them all while my lips stayed in a hard line and my cheeks hurt from smiling politely.

That night, we simultaneously texted each other at 9:52 pm. I considered this a sign.  

Can you see me?

Attending homecoming as a senior is essentially a humiliation ritual. That’s what I tried to convince you of as you zipped my dress up from behind, your warm hands lingering slightly on my bare shoulders. I tried not to focus on the touch, instead rushing to pull my olive stockings up my thighs. It was a strange feeling; when I turned toward you, I wanted you to look away, but almost subconsciously, I puffed out my chest, made my spine tall, tied my hair around my neck, as if to say, “Look at me.” You did—just briefly. I watched your eyes take in my collarbone, my neck, my chest, scanning, surveying, analyzing my body in the careful, calculated way women are often taught to observe others. I hated it, and then your eyes followed the line of my lips, to the bridge of my nose, and suddenly I felt very beautiful because your gaze was dark and considering and heavy. I wanted to get you to look at me like that again.

You didn’t. Your date was two hours late, sloppily drunk, and missing his green corsage. You ran eagerly to his first-gen Chevy truck anyway, and I watched, momentarily, as his greedy, dirty hands rushed to pull down your corset top.

I drove home in silence. My left hand rested on the same spot of my knee that you often held while I drove. I thought you might be the cruelest girl in the world.

Pour your glass of wine
Mitchell told me I should be just fine, yeah
Cases under the bed
Spill it open, let it rush to my head

I invite you to my older cousin’s annual Halloween party. There are fifteen adults in the room and three seventeen-year-old girls: you, me, and your closest friend at the time. Because my older siblings are decidedly cool and giving, they slip us a couple of beers, a shot of vodka, and a communal cup of rum-spiked fruit punch. The alcohol makes me hazy and I watch, unabashed, as you tilt your head back and raise the bottle to your lips. I like the way your neck is on display, and my eyes follow the motion. I have enough self-control to sit on my hands and prevent my fingers from wandering. You don’t seem to notice my restraint; instead, you wrap your hands around my waist, blow hot air behind my ear. It’s enough for my sister to notice and raise an eyebrow. I try not to read into it, instead choosing to rest my head on your shoulder and count the cracks in the ceiling fan. When you laugh, I can feel the vibration through my own body, and somehow, someway, in the middle of the night, we end up on the couch, your fingers tracing smooth circles up and down the inside of my tights. It’s addictive. Until a man in a Playboy bunny costume towers over us. I open my mouth, prepared to say that we’re underage, that he’s a creep, and that ultimately, he should fuck off, until I feel, rather than hear, you laugh at his jokes, moving your hand from my thigh to his hand. You giggle, all girlish and lovely and pleasant, and it’s nothing like your real laughter—the type that’s deep from your belly and ugly and loud. That seems to be enough of a sign for him; he whips out his phone, asks for your Snapchat despite being 23 years of age, and you exchange numbers. Bile rises suddenly in my throat, and I rush to the bathroom, heaving and gasping loudly enough that my sister comes in and ties my straightened hair back.

Tell you how I felt. Sugar coating melting in your mouth.

You find me two hours later, clutching a bottle of Mango Barefoot, a sour expression on my face. I’ve torn my fishnet stockings, and you make a comment about it, looping your pinkie finger around the fabric on my knee. I’m hyper-aware of the feeling of your hand there. Uncharacteristically, I pull away, immature and aggressively bitter because of your absence the entire night. You smile knowingly, rest a hand on my cheek, and tease me for my jealousy. I cannot stand when you do this—the way you make me feel so young, so naive, vulnerable, naked. It’s so fucking unfair. You’re so unfair. I can’t control the fact that my heart is literally on my sleeve. I make a comment, absent-mindedly, about the difference between the two of us—how you managed to get a 23-year-old’s number, and I have yet to receive my first kiss. I expect a laugh, but silence follows. I pass the bottle, a peace offering, and you take slow, small sips from it. Because I’m deranged, I watch the shape of your lip around the mouth of the bottle. You then offer to kiss me, offhand, faux-casual. My world tilts. I nod. I go for your lips, miss, then try again. It’s chaste, hardly three seconds, but so warm. You pull back, laugh, offer me a hand, and walk me back inside. My sister knows before I even tell her.

Pardon my emotions, I should probably keep it all to myself. Know you’d make fun of me.

You’re an ugly crier. I hate that I know that about you. When I pull away, you don’t fight it.

Our friendship ends on an uneventful Thursday afternoon. I hear rumors about you from mouthy teenage boys and callous old friends. I imagine David’s hand on your thigh, around your waist, and decide that I don’t care to defend you. Sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly spiteful, I join in.

I instantly regret it.

Walking out the door with your bags.

With my dad’s help, I pack my room—my life—into a single suitcase. I leave the plant you gifted me on my nightstand. I hope it dies by the time I return.

For a very long time, Clairo’s “Bags” was my last emotional connection to you. At its opening melody, I’d imagine your half-dimple; by the chorus, I could count the freckles on your nose. Sometimes, at the three-minute, thirty-second mark, I’d imagine a different reality—one where I gained the courage to tell you something, anything of substance. A timeline in which I was not aggressively closeted in rural Pennsylvania. Occasionally, when I shuffled through my Spotify playlist, “Bags” would make itself known again, serving as an auditory graveyard for unresolved relationships. For that reason, I used to resent it in all its melancholic, gay glory.

Now, at 21, I feel different. My heart doesn’t collapse in on itself at its opening chords. I still imagine your face, but it’s foggy at the edges, and I can remember the aftertaste of once-savored emotions. The stolen glances, the casual touches, the childish jokes—I’ll hold onto them as long as I can. I don’t miss you, but I do miss the life I lived before “Bags” carried the weight it now does. Perhaps every queer woman has her own “Bags” moment—a quiet anthem of first love and things we’ve learned to carry, despite moving on.