He always smelled of sex and cologne. I must have smelled of loneliness (and probably chlorine, I was swimming year round), for during those two years we were entangled together, I was lost. We met at the most unassuming place: church. He was unusual, charming, and played the guitar. He had me hooked from the first time we met. We struggled with our overbearing attraction for one another and played off being just friends for quite some time. The first time we kissed was the first time I lost my innocence. Sure, we never went all the way, but my heart began to give itself away to him. That first time our bodies touched he played and sang along with Death Cab’s “Tiny Vessels.” You are beautiful, but you don’t mean a thing to me. The words played in my head for those two secret years with him. They broke me every time. I don’t know about you but I swear on my name they could smell it on me. I’ve never been too good with secrets. Even though the words cut deep, I continued meeting for our rendezvous, and soon enough he was temporarily fulfilling my loneliness.

Music had always given me hope. It was the one thing I could count on, and all of the sudden it was the one thing that could send me to my knees. We snuck around, skipped school and explored each others’ bodies, but we never took it to the next level. When every Thursday I’d brave those mountain passes / And you’d skip your early classes / And we’d learn how our bodies worked.

I hated the person I had become with him. To my friends I was brave and strong, but when I was around him I grew weak and let his charm draw me in. He knew me inside and out, and he used that knowledge to play me like a fiddle. This horrible “friends with benefits” relationship I had gotten into wrecked my life. And then one night I gave in. In the comfort of a tent and his body, I lost it all; my heart, strength, and virginity. The whole time those lyrics ran through my head. You’re beautiful, but you don’t mean a thing to me. I lay there for some time afterwards on that tarp on the ground, wondering how I got into this mess. And I wondered how to get out.

I remember listening to “We Looked Like Giants” the next morning after, and I knew if this situation had a song, that would be it. Both Death Cab songs explained how I felt so perfectly — even after he left for good, the songs still took me back to his smell, the feel of his hands, and the sound of his voice. It has been a few years since I’ve last seen him, and while he may always have a part of my heart, what he doesn’t have is his copy of Transatlanticism on vinyl. I’m currently using it for therapy, learning how to forget him and his words. One day I think it will make a wonderful Frisbee.