Since the end of February, when I went to Portland and saw Crazy Chinatown Man, we've been constants in each others' lives.  Hardly a day passes without communication between us. I text him funny stories from my work, he emails me pervy Craigslist ads from his housing search, we complain about the heat in the Pacific Northwest this summer and exchange selfies when we are hungover or sick.  I've known him for over two years now while he, having been in a psychotropic drug-induced haze on our first date that he can't remember, starts the count from our second date ten months ago.

It's the most time I've invested in a man since this blog started.  In our own weird, casual, fucky fuck way, we've formed a relationship that means something to both of us, which neither one can define.

I miss him often and for some reason, lying in bed last week, I wanted him to know. "I miss you," I texted, and immediately I felt vulnerable and teary.  The words are less weighty and political than "I love you," but they are intimate and come from a similar place.  Since my last boyfriend, he's the only man I've said them to.

I didn't think I would see him again unless I traveled to Oregon, but he wanted to come visit before I get down and dirty on the Pacific Crest Trail next weekend.  We ate, drank, played chess, sat on my rooftop, laid in bed until 11, nuzzled, kissed, sucked, sexed, were sober and not.  He'd lived in Seattle for two decades before he moved and upon seeing the worsening traffic, boxy condos, and pudgy men with tech badges, agreed that I need to leave as soon as possible.  It's not his scene any more, and it's not mine either.

He'd given me his phone to look something up when a text came in from a woman.  I'd heard her name and seen her picture before, and while he'd never offered information about their relationship, I knew intuitively they were dating.  I do my best to avoid drama, so I handed the phone back and said "K___ just texted you. I don't want to accidently read it."

He handled it perfectly, exited the text, gave me the phone back, and returned immediately to our conversation as though there had never been an interruption.

Then the same thing happened an hour or two later.

I wasn't mad or even annoyed.  How could I be?  We have no obligations to each other and live in different states.  Yet it still stung, and I had to know the status of their relationship because the uncertainty of not knowing was far worse than whatever he could possibly tell me.

I don't remember what he said exactly because I was trying hard not to cry, but I felt like he was respectful both to me and to her, which of course made me want to cry even more.  Anyone who has been through heartbreak knows the feeling I'm about to describe that has no word in English:

That feeling when you care about someone so much that you genuinely want what is best for them but you're devastated inside because what's best for them isn't you, and you say you're happy for them (because you are) but you're also just sad and bitter and resentful that she was born with genes that make her thin and attractive with no makeup on.

There should be a word for that.

I excused myself to go to the bathroom because the tears were about to start flowing, and once that happens I turn into a spigot that won't twist off.  Then I returned and continued on with the evening, trying to focus on the here and now, the him and me, the energy we have together that means something, regardless of his connection with another person.

That night when we were kissing, I was careful to avoid leaving any marks, any small bruises on his body that would indicate to her that I had been there, because I didn't want to be the cause of messing up a relationship he is trying to build.

If that's not caring, I don't know what is.