Eleanor looked through the contacts on her phone, looking for a name, a person, a friend, an ex-lover, whom she might text or call, so that she wouldn’t have to spend another night alone. In the daylight, she could wander the city by herself, go to class, or sit in a coffee shop. Once the sun went down, and the temperature dropped, she was no longer satisfied with the fifteen minutes (max) she could spend smoking on the top of the parking garage across from her building.

Eleanor was desperate, but she had come off that way for too long, and hiding her urgency was a battle she was too weak to fight at times. How could she find someone new?

It gave her a peace of mind that she couldn’t quite explain to her friends, who didn’t understand her habit of wandering from bed to bed (or in one case, a dorm room couch).

She was tired of smoking by herself, walking the dark streets by herself -- frankly she was tired of doing almost everything by herself. Just last month, even last week, she was convinced she was going to hold out for a potential relationship. Sure, they loved her at night, but they didn’t really want to be seen in the daylight with her and definitely didn’t want to be someone to hold her hand while walking down the street.

For nearly two years, she had been disgusted by hand-holding for many reasons. Yet a few months before, she had allowed herself, every once and awhile, to desire a relationship -- someone to hold her hand as they walked down a lamp-lit street or stood in the cold, in someone’s yard, at a house show. She wanted to be a couple, though when she recognized this archaic-like wish, she had to force herself not to throw up. Eleanor knew she was not that kind of girl, at least, not since she was a senior in high school. This burning desire was often too embarrassing to admit, even to herself. But why? Because it sounded childish? Because the rejection as a girlfriend was much more likely than being rejected for something edgier?