The day I decided to write about my heartbreak (Part 3)

Hola,

I know—I have good friends. The kind who will do anything to enable my most toxic desires, even if that means following my ex all over the city just to find out what he’s been up to.

But before I tell you more about my stalking era and the night that pushed me to write the novel, I thought it was important to share a bit more about the love story that inspired not only the book, but a whole new chapter in my life—one I like to call: “Photography Was Just Not Enough.”

P.S. If you’re reading this, it means you’ve been generous enough to spend a few minutes of your day getting to know me and the things I’m curious about. Please know I’m truly, eternally grateful for that time.

Here’s a short summary of everything that went down.

This is the picture I took of the back room at Minetta Tavern, on the night I met Mark in 2015. I had just moved to New York two months earlier and somehow managed to get invited to a dinner hosted by a couple I had photographed a few weeks before. It was their engagement party, and I liked them enough to say yes. I was also so new to the city that I was desperate to make friends, so I had no real filter—I just wanted to meet as many people as possible, even if that meant spending all the savings I had brought from Colombia, in pesos, to make it work in the U.S.

I was the first one to arrive, which gave me time to plan where to sit and find a spot where the light hit me best. Back then, at 25, I weighed 220 pounds (100 kg), which is a lot for my height. And although I was never really insecure about it—at least not in Colombia—when I moved to New York and saw how strict and obsessed people were with their bodies, I started to notice how long they looked at me…and my stomach. That’s when the idea crept in: maybe I didn’t look good. Worse—maybe I didn’t belong in the rooms I dreamed of being in. I think rich people in New York are prouder of being skinny than being rich.

Anyway, I found my spot, sat down, and fifteen minutes later, people started to arrive.

I didn’t know anyone aside from the hosts, so I made an effort to talk to the people at my table—most of them were a little basic and unimpressed by my job. Except for one guy who made a few smart comments about the power of images to tell stories. He was a high-brow writer with an accent, working for an international publication, so I figured he had spent a lot of time around photographers. I didn’t speak to him directly, but I was drawn to everything he said—and how he used his hands when he ate.

At the end of the dinner, the couple gave a speech and invited everyone to go clubbing. That’s not really my thing—especially not the dancing-in-a-circle-to-pop-music kind of clubbing, where people try to have deep conversations in places where you can barely hear a word. So I politely declined, hugged the couple goodbye (excusing myself with a fake shoot the next day), and walked out.

As soon as I stepped outside, a waiter ran after me, tapped my shoulder, and handed me a card.
“He said you should contact him.”

It was Mark’s. The guy with the fancy writing job. That business card marked the beginning of a two-year adventure that would change my life.

Before Mark, I had only dated two women—both in Colombia, between my teens and early twenties. The first was an on-and-off thing, mostly sexual. The second was more serious; it lasted six months. She was the most beautiful girl on campus, and everyone was upset that the fat, charming guy was dating the prettiest girl. I think I tried to keep the relationship alive just to piss off the hot, masculine toxic guys who wanted her. But the truth is, my career was taking off, fast—and my work became my priority so we eventually broke up.

The next four years were all about work, work and work. I worked so much I forgot I was even a sexual person, or someone with desires. I forgot what it felt like to be attracted or attractive. I never really questioned what I wanted romantically. By January 2015, I felt I had done everything I could in Colombia, so I packed my bags and moved here.

Later that year, I texted Mark. Since he was a writer for a big publication, I assumed our coffee meeting was about work.
“He’s going to give me a job!” I thought.

Little did I know, the only thing he saw in me that night wasn’t my talent as a photographer—it was that I was gay… and didn’t know it yet.

That’s how our relationship began.

The rest of the story will be available when the novel is published.
However (spoiler alert): he left me. And it wasn’t kind. It broke me for two years.
And then—four years later, when I finally felt whole again—I saw him in Central Park.

Here is where we go back to my friend Gonzaga comes back in. And the little chase I asked him to do for me:

—I was able to catch the same train he’s on. We’re heading uptown.—

That was the first text I got from Gonzaga after ten eternal minutes of waiting for confirmation that he had, in fact, managed to follow Mark.

—THANK GOD lol! I was dying to hear back. I wonder if he’s just at a hotel—I know he doesn’t live here—

I replied.

—I don’t think so. We’re on the B train and already passed Times Square. I don’t know any other uptown hotels on the West Side. Maybe he’s staying at his old place?—

My stomach turned. My throat went dry.
Mark used to own an apartment on the Upper West Side. He sold it right before telling me he was leaving the country for good.

—What is he wearing?— I asked, trying to distract myself from my spiraling thoughts.

—He’s wearing a suit with a green parka and a thin polka dot scarf.—

He’s so French.

—Wait—we’re getting off at 72nd Street.—

That was his stop when we were dating.
I started to panic.

—OMG. Please get off with him and let me know exactly which building he enters.—

—Obvs. I didn’t come all the way here to not find out where he’s staying.—

I went to the kitchen and drank directly from the faucet again, letting some of that water run through my face.
I couldn’t shake the thought: what if he never really moved out? What if he made the whole story up just to never see me again?

—Okay—he just walked into a brownstone on 74th and near the park.—

I read that message seven times in ten seconds.

—Please let me know if the two windows above the main entrance turn on.—

He sent me a photo.

—Do you want to talk?—

I couldn’t, my voice had vanished after seeing that photo and I didn’t want to cry to Gonzaga over the phone. So I just replied:

—Thank you!, really, you have no idea how much you have done for me, I’ll call you tomorrow!-

—OK, I’m sorry, let’s talk tomorrow.—

The last post of this story (and more about how the novel came to life) will be in your inbox next week. Thanks for sticking with me through all of this—I swear you won’t be disappointed.

Chao,

Andrés