How could I have hurt someone as beautiful as him? To me, he was the very epitome of love: if there was ever evidence of selflessness in this world, he has shown me the closest manifestation of it. 

He has sacrificed countless nights of good sleep (during nights when I would sleep-talk constantly and grumble at him to stop stealing the blankets) so he could wake up beside me in the morning. He has brought me food when I was too tired to head down to the dining halls, encouraged me to study when I was falling asleep in my books, and made me smile when all I wanted to do was complain. 

In many ways, he knew all of me, my faults and my insecurities, and yet he always chose to see the best of me. He helped me keep my wits about me, to secure my confidence, and to see the person who he thought I was. 

Over time, I fell in love with this intelligent, kind, understanding boy. I grew to admire his confidence when meeting new people, his welcoming nature to newcomers, and his patience when explaining obscure physics concepts. He is brilliant: he aced his five classes in a quarter when I was overwhelmed by four, and he can instinctively grasp logic puzzles that take me longer to comprehend. To me, he was my protector, my lover, and most importantly, my best friend. 

I could never offer him as much love as he offered me. Next to his selfless actions, I always felt like a self-absorbed person. I prioritized school, case competitions, Alpha Kappa Psi, recruiting, work, and self-growth over him. Yesterday, he asked me if he still fit into my life. I asked him if the opposite were true and he said yes, I can make you fit into my life. For a second, I envisioned my future: him attending AKPsi events with me, us squeezing in dinner between Ultimate (for him) and work (for me). Would it be fair to him to continue to sacrifice for my time schedule, my life, when I could not do the same for him? 

Knowing that I could not offer him the same intensity of love which he gave to me, I knew we could not be together any longer. Stuck in the zone of more-than-friends, but admitting nothing in public, loving each other quietly — it just wasn’t fair to him or to me. Too long, I have cowered in the comfort that we love each other, regardless of title, but I can do this no longer. I have to be brave, stick with the truth, and be okay with truly being alone.  

I came into relationships believing that honesty and communication were the two building blocks for a strong relationship, but I have realized that equity is equally, if not more, important. In my relationship, my love poured his heart out to me, ecstatically, joyfully, passionately. It was hard for me to muster the same intensity of conviction about him and me, about us. I doubted our ability to converse with each other about topics that genuinely interested both of us, and I was never as affectionate as he was. Perhaps, it was because I am more introverted and reserved than he is, or perhaps it was because he has more love in his heart than I do. Whatever it was, our relationship lacked the equity it needed to grow and to flourish.

Now, we can no longer be together, because our relationship’s lack of equity is tearing us both up. I often feel overwhelmed by his love, while he feels rejected by the lack of time and love I have for him. Although I know this, I feel heartbroken. I can’t imagine not calling him after midterms or bumping into him coming out of the gym, not throwing a disc with him in the quad or eating dinner with him at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant. Severing all ties with him, to help us fall out of love, makes me feel as though I have also lost my dearest friend at UCLA. 

It will take time for both of us to stop feeling so sad. But time will pass, and hearts will heal, and eventually, we will move on. Maybe we will be friends again. I hope we will be. 

Until then, I pray that he finds somebody who loves him for exactly who he is, and who can love him as he deserves to be loved. Equitably, ecstatically, without reserve. Anything less is not good enough for him. I am sorry that I could not.