by Lauren Gray

There’s something about being in a crowd that turns me off to the world. I consider myself an amiable person, and I like to think that I gain energy rather than lose it from being around people I love. I’m certainly not an introvert who prefers solitude; in fact, I hate nothing more than being alone. But there’s something about the quiet intimacy of time spent one-on-one that never fails to steady my heart, ground my feet, and lift my spirits. There’s something about time spent when it’s just the two of us.

I must admit, nothing is perfect. There are inevitable downfalls to going through life two-by-two. When the other half seeks company elsewhere—making plans without me or rainchecking our already existing ones because something more enticing comes up—I am left alone. I’ve become intimately familiar with this truth. Loneliness is the cause of my misery, on those nights when I sit in the corner of my room, heaving chest and sloppy tears, clammy palms and frightening thoughts. I am well aware that this is my greatest weakness—an internal wound that consumes me from the inside-out. It is the scab on my heart, continually picked at.

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Being in a part of the world completely new to me only further enforced my convoluted tendencies. As the populace grew by legions, my fear of getting lost in a crowd intensified alongside it. In unfamiliar streets, where the language was a song I would never learn the words to, and the streets were made of stalls that I could only approach if I was armed with the quips of a haggler, I found myself reaching for the intimacy of twoness. Two arms linked and two voices chatting. A second set of feet to roam beside mine in the streets of our temporary home.

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During the four weeks when students dispersed to locations near and far to pursue their independent study projects, I was living in a small flat in Nepal with two other girls, Iris and Marie. In the long haul, four weeks is not a lot of time. It is, however, enough time to build a routine. Our flat was divided into three main spaces: the master bedroom, the guest bedroom, and the open concept kitchen, dining, and living room. Iris had the master. Marie had the guest room. I had the sofa. Marie was a deep, late sleeper. Iris was quite the opposite.

Our day began at roughly 7 AM. I woke up first, tucked my pillow and blanket into a corner to make the living room presentable, brushed my teeth, washed my face, and began cooking breakfast. By the time I had pulled out all of the ingredients and started the kettle for tea, Iris would have heard my rustlings and come to join me. Without ever naming it, we fell into the rhythm of our morning ritual.

I drew the curtains open; she started the coffee.

I began the eggs; she prepared the fruit platter.

I made the toast; she plated the biscuits.

I filled glasses with water and mugs with tea; she set the table with silverware and towels.

This dance took about forty minutes. Marie was still dead to the world in the room next door. Iris and I moved swiftly, tidily, and confidently. We knew this kitchen. We knew the contents on the counter and in the fridge—we did the grocery runs together as well. We knew how many scoops of coffee grounds to add to the pot and how much fruit, and how many biscuits each person was likely to eat. About five minutes before everything was ready, we took turns calling Marie’s name to wake her. Some mornings it worked. Others, it didn’t. At first, we worried when she wouldn’t come out. Eventually, we learned that she would eat when she was ready and, with enough gentle reminders, would do the dishes before dinner.

Iris and I were content in our mornings together. The sky was always blue in Kathmandu, and our toast was always golden. The city was alight below us, but in our kitchen, there was always steadiness. The small clink of our teacups. The scrape of the knife against a cutting board. The humming of boiling water. Everything had a home and a rhythm.

Dinner followed a similar pattern, always set to a playlist Iris made: a mix of funk and Portuguese songs. We danced when cooking dinner—every night, without fail. The sun dipped behind the shops across from our flat, coating the room in an amber glow. We always moved in synchrony in this kitchen.

The two of us were good at what we did.

But it couldn’t last forever.

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Travelling abroad was a bittersweet fragment of time. Once rhythms were set, breaking away from them became inevitable. Iris would return to Ohio to finish her schooling, and I would go back home to California and then to campus in Minnesota. When the latter time came, I found myself asking my friends to be patient with me—to spend time in softer, more intimate ways. Just the two of us, one on one. Coffee dates instead of group outings. Quiet dinners at home instead of crowded ones in town. Long walks instead of late-night parties. They obliged with an ease and tenderness I hadn’t expected. We built routines of our own that reinforced my confidence in this buddy system. Why would anyone leave this kind of life?

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One Saturday night during winter term, before the agony of final exams and essays took hold of campus, I was in my bedroom, alone. My desk sits parallel to a large window that looks out to the campus townhouses and the sidewalk that leads directly into our small town’s version of nightlife. I shifted my notebooks and trinkets to one side of the desk and climbed on top of it. I sat there with my knees tucked, arms wrapped around my shins, head angled forty-five degrees against my knees, and watched. People moved in groups the size of pairs to packs. And anyone who traveled alone was always on their way to rejoin their hive. I had tried earlier that evening to call for some company, but each of my comfort persons had already established grander plans with their respective teammates, housemates, friend groups, and so on. I felt old panic rising—I was getting lost in the crowd.

Well, maybe not.

My vision began to pool and fuzz, the standard first steps of my decomposition. Usually, my breath goes next, quickly and sharply escaping. This time, it did not. I caught myself. I began scooping up the mess of me and came together again. In, out. In, out. Something new, how wonderful. I sat with myself for a while that night, just watching and breathing. I spent the evening trying to sort out my feelings, trying to trace the migration of my fears.

As the outside world began to calm and the rank music quieted, I hopped down from my desk and melted into bed. As I lied there, I tried to type out my thoughts into my notes app. No progress.

My phone buzzed: Hey, how are you? I miss you! We should call soon. It was Iris.

Two minutes later, another buzz: How’s your night going? A friend on campus, getting home from a party, was thinking of me as she unwound from the night.

I replied to them both, smiling. I fell asleep shortly thereafter.

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After that night, I began to gently tug at the edges of my safety net. I began pushing myself into groups of three, then five, then ten. Eventually, I stood in circles instead of across from a single face. I let conversations overlap and laughter swell around me. Being part of a group was more comforting than I imagined. Naturally, as with any transition in life, I still let my Saturday night upsets get the best of me. Over time, though, they softened and became more manageable. I no longer felt sloppy and helpless in my bouts of loneliness; I gained control. Not because I suddenly began to enjoy being alone, but because I would remind myself that during the coddling phase of my reintegration into college life, my friends had altered their habits and expectations around and for me. They met me where I was without hesitation or complaint. They were so willing to make space for my smallness. Their love for me was bigger than I believed it to be. I figured, maybe they loved me enough to hold my hand in the crowd, instead of letting me get swallowed up in it.

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I think I have always been like this. I’ve always loved in twos. You and me. It was Erin in elementary school. Then Amy in middle school. Then it was Sophia in high school. In college, it’s been Aidan. Each phase of love has meant the world to me. Each person has curated a sector of my personhood. But as I’ve grown up, I’ve started to collect a little more love at a time. I still frequently function in shifts—one person at a time. But I am learning that intimacy is not diluted by abundance; it is strengthened by it.

For so long, I trained my brain to limit itself out of fear that I would get lost in the crowd. I believed that loving too many people at once would mean loving none of them well. I believed that if I stepped too far into the noise, no one would notice if I disappeared. But the truth is, I am bound to get lost in the crowd sometimes. As are you. Life itself is standing as one small dot against the backdrop of billions of others.

The size of the crowd doesn’t matter as much as I once thought it did. Because the right people will always be willing to look for you. They will scan the room for your face. They will recognize your laugh above the noise. They will feel the absence of your presence. They will push through the bodies and gently tap your shoulder. They will say your name. And sometimes, if the crowd grows too dense and the world too loud, they will step outside with you.

Just the two of you.

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