Every City I Loved You In

I used to keep track of cities the way people collect stamps or postcards. Not because I was obsessed with travel, but because each place carried a version of you.

New York was first. We weren’t even really us yet. Just two people who met at a concert and ended up walking all night because neither of us wanted to say goodbye. You told me your favorite poems and I pretended not to be intimidated by how easily the words fell from your mouth. That night, the city felt endless—alive, pulsing, like it could hold us both forever. I kissed you on the Brooklyn Bridge. It wasn’t planned. It just happened, like rain or luck.

Then there was Chicago. Cold, sharp Chicago. We stayed in a cramped Airbnb with noisy radiators and a broken coffee pot. You laughed more there. I think the cold made you weird in the best way. We spent an entire afternoon building a snowman in front of someone’s house like we were kids. When we got back inside, you made grilled cheese with too much butter and played Nina Simone while I thawed my fingers in your hair. I remember thinking, “If this is love, I hope it never changes.”

In New Orleans, we almost broke. It was summer and too hot for pretending. We fought outside a jazz bar because you said I wasn’t listening, and I said you were always somewhere else, even when you were right next to me. We both stood there, red-faced and stupid, with a band playing “Ain’t Misbehavin’” behind us. I walked away. You didn’t follow right away, but you found me hours later on the riverwalk, holding beignets and two cold beers like peace offerings. We didn’t say much, but we leaned into each other. Sometimes that’s enough.

San Francisco was a dream. We rode cable cars and shared headphones like we were teenagers. You wore that mustard yellow coat I teased you about, and I caught strangers smiling at how happy you looked. That city made you light, like the hills and fog had lifted something off your chest. I took photos of you under neon signs and with sea lions barking behind you. That trip felt like a movie I didn’t want to end.

Then came Berlin. We were tired by then—maybe not of each other, but of trying. We wandered through museums and didn’t hold hands as much. You journaled a lot, and I went on long walks without telling you where. Still, we shared currywurst under the TV tower and danced badly in a techno club until 4 a.m. There was still laughter, still something soft between us. But we both knew something was loosening. Berlin was the city where we finally told the truth: that we loved each other, but maybe we weren’t meant to stay.

I haven’t seen you in years now. I hear you’re in London. I’m in Portland, mostly. Sometimes when it rains here, I think of all the cities where I loved you. They aren’t just places on a map. They’re full of coffee cups, missed trains, inside jokes, street music, and your hand in mine. They’re full of us—versions of us that only existed in that moment, in that city.

And you know what? I don’t regret a single one. Not even New Orleans. Not even Berlin.

Because every city I loved you in gave me something I didn’t have before: courage, softness, laughter, forgiveness. Some places gave me all of it. Some just reminded me how human I am. And that’s okay.

I still collect cities. But now, when I land somewhere new, I don’t look for you in the streets or the cafés. I just let the place be what it is. But sometimes, in the way a stranger tilts their head while laughing, or in a song spilling from an open window, I feel you again—just for a second.

And for that second, I'm grateful.