It was a glorious night to kill. Moonlight reflected off the woman’s knife. Not the classiest tool, but it did its job.

Her left hand twitched.

Not yet, I’ve waited this long.

She checked her reflection.

Innocent, as long as nobody paid attention. Thank goodness nobody ever paid attention.

Home smells like charred whole wheat toast. The kind that sets off the fire alarm or makes you open a window (or five). Also, all the crumbs of God only knows what stuck at the bottom of the toaster.

It smells like celery that’s been sitting in the fridge crisper way too long and last night’s beans and rice.

It’s all the dust-covered vinyl records, and psychology textbooks that haven’t been looked at in decades, old people furniture, and expired potpourri.

Eucalyptus. Wet pavement. Morning fog.

It’s sizzling onions and garlic, medium-roast coffee grounds, half-empty Tresemme shampoo bottles.

It’s latkes and wet clay, lemon ginger tea, chalky air from the heating vent, and the sour drawer of clothes nobody wears or wants to give away.

Costco brand Tide Pods and 99 Cent store hand soap.

Burnt buttermilk pancakes and box mix brownies.

Tea tree oil and gardenia perfume.

It’s everything and nothing, all at once.

So what is it about bad boys that girls (I) just can’t seem to get enough of? Ok, not to sound like some “nice guy” comedian who still lives in his mom’s basement playing Magic: The Gathering, but I am said girls, therefore I’m definitely not setting back feminism like thirty years here, right? Anyways, I’m just curious why some (just calling out myself here) girls always have to fall for some brooding, dark horse whose only personality trait is looking hot, and wearing a shit ton of black. Like, sure, he might be cute, but can he pay off my student loans, or get me into NYU as a transfer? Can he snag me a part-time job that doesn’t make me want to bang my head against the wall in sync with the BPM of Mariah Carey’s greatest hits? Can he make kimchi fried rice without the rice going all mushy? I don’t think so!

While I have realized that my ideal type of man probably possesses the most toxic concoction of traits I can think of, I simply don’t care. I have a whole life (or 12 years, according to UN climate scientists) to find some guy who can actually hold a conversation and knows the secrets to perfect kimchi fried rice, but until then? Might as well go after the first dude I see who can rock a spiked denim jacket? Am I right, ladies? For the sake of his privacy, I will call the previously mentioned dude, “Astro Greyson”, and this is the story of how I totally blew my chances with him this past summer.

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The year is 2019. I have finally, finally graduated from high school. I’m probably going to college unless they reject me last minute, and now I have a learner’s permit. I’m basically unstoppable. It’s still summer, and I’m still sad I’ve never had that cute fling that eventually fizzles out, but was fun while it lasted (or any romance at all, for that matter). So what happens when an impulsive girl, aspiring to be mature, college lady empowered in her sexuality, decides to finally get off her high horse, and make the first move on the stupid punk guy she’s been crushing on (and mildly stalking) for almost a whole year? As y’all are about to find out, it was a total shitshow, but also a great learning experience! (Let me just clarify this was completely out of character for me in every way possible. Once, I saw somebody I liked while in the car with my mom, had an intense panic attack, and jumped out crying the second we got home.)

I’d seen Astro around a lot, already found his Instagram (obviously), and there had been a lot of eye contact going on over the past year (so clearly he was in love with me and this was the perfect opportunity for me to go for it?). I figured it beat staring at him from across the trash ridden field where everybody hangs out after school. What could possibly go wrong? So with that, some slight peer pressure from my friends whom I love dearly, and my absolute last brain cell -- I sent him a cringey direct message via Instagram. It went something along the lines of: “hey! I see you around all the time and think you’re hella cute. here’s my number :) (1(234) 567-8910)”. Additionally, with all my genius, I decided not to have a single picture of myself on my profile, because he’d just be able to figure out who I was, right? Right?

(Ok you all probably think I’m really crazy and creepy now, and I promise I’m not! And, also, what in God’s name does this story have to do with the “unknown”? Ok, to be honest, I have definitely gotten off track and am already forgetting what my own point but don’t worry about it, it’s coming.) Anyways, two painstakingly long days later, I got a response.

Astro was really nice about the whole thing. He said that, while he had no idea who I was (ouch), I should say hi the next time I saw him, and also asked where I’d seen him around. In retrospect, I really appreciate that he didn’t immediately block me and call the cops (very Christian of him). I struggled for days wondering how I should reply and keep the conversation going. Eventually, in all my glory, I decided on a ~quirky manic-pixie-dream-girl esque self-deprecating joke, involving a reference from the Oscar-nominated classic: Ice Age. Yes, it was at least thirteen times as bad as it sounds. So bad, I will not even attempt to paraphrase it, as I might actually die from embarrassment if I think about it for too long.

Yeah, so I never heard back from him again. Surprise, surprise! Fortunately, I was able to escape the complete mortification of my actions by running off to college shortly after. But I still think this short-lived false bravado I conjured up, literally, all, the, time! And Astro is on my mind a lot more than I’d like to admit. Is it because I’m still creepily attached to the idea of him? Maybe. Or because things feel so unresolved? So “unknown”? He now knows about my existence and has some sort of conception of me, but I still know absolutely nothing of him. Not if he has magically figured out my true identity, or if I ever had a shot in hell of making something happen between us, not if I’ll ever be capable of making a move on somebody again without being a total idiot.

Even though it was most definitely the most embarrassing moment of my life, I had to make myself vulnerable for once. To try manifesting my own fate and take control of the uncontrollable, mysterious deity that is life. I couldn’t continue hiding away in my made up-comfort zone-dream land where nothing ever happens and I pretend I’m fine with that. Even though I might not ever see “Astro” again, or get any closure, I know now that I had to do something, even if just to prove to myself that I could. When I hit “send” with that first message, I resigned myself to the “unknown”.