“You know,” my old roommate once said, halfway through a wine night that had turned into a therapy session, “I think most of your guy problems come from never having a healthy male friendship.”
At the time, I brushed it off.
I thought I had guy friends. But they were never just friends. They flirted with me when they were bored. They ghosted me when they got girlfriends. They kept me on the hook just enough to feel chosen, but never enough to be safe.
That wasn’t friendship, it was ego. That was loneliness disguised as connection.
And then came Silver.
Silver is not my boyfriend. He’s not an ex. He’s not a guy I “used to have a thing with.” He’s my best friend. Lowkey, my person. Future uncle to my kids, whether he’s ready or not.
There’s no tension. No backstory. Just years of mutual trust, sarcasm, support and the kind of bond that doesn’t need to be anything more to matter deeply.
And now—we’re taking a trip. Not just any trip. The trip. D.C. and New York City. My graduation gift. My rebound.
My reminder that healing doesn’t have to look like crying in bed and avoiding places that remind me of him.
Sometimes healing looks like booking the ferry to see the skyline at night. Sometimes it looks like obsessively scrolling Hotel.com and screenshotting every food spot within walking distance of the hotel. Sometimes it looks like finally doing the thing you said you’d do when you were better—and realizing you already are.
This time last year? I was a walking heartbreak.
Kilometer had just left me spinning. I was rebounding on instinct, falling for any man who made me feel seen—even for a second.
Spoiler: none of them stayed.
Then this year, came Blue. He told me all his female friends were “just friends.” He gaslit me for noticing the way they lingered in the background. And then, one of those friends became the girl he cheated with.
When he asked, “Do you still talk to any of the guys you’ve slept with?” I said no.
Because I don’t. Because I don’t keep people around for nostalgia or security. Because I don’t pretend friendships are real when they’re just romantic tension wearing a mask.
That’s what makes this trip so important.
I didn’t fall into someone else’s bed to get over Blue. I fell into Hotel.com. Into Amtrak trains and group itinerary Google Docs and texting Silver at 2 a.m. like, “Wait, do we need ferry tickets in advance???”
This isn’t a rebound into a new person. This is a rebound into myself.
The version of me that gets excited about bookstores and bagels. The version of me who used to dream about New York and is finally walking those dreams into reality. The version of me who knows I don’t need romance to feel loved.
Because platonic love? It holds you, too. It shows up. It makes the plans. It buys the ferry ticket.
Silver is proof of that. And he’ll be around long after most men are gone.
So to Harry Burns, wherever you are— You were wrong.
Men and women can be friends. Real friends. I’m living proof.
And this trip? It’s the happiest ending I didn’t see coming.
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Confessions of a Hot Mess is the personal work of Emily Hess. The opinions expressed in this column, as well as those published in The Nevada Sagebrush, are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of The Sagebrush or its staff.
