EMBRACING MERCURY RETROGRADE AND THE EXES THAT COME WITH IT

In 2015, the Mercury Retrograde in Libra brought me a second chance with a guy that I thought was damn near perfect for me. Not only was John devastatingly handsome, but he was well dressed (without looking like he tried hard), had a great career, was well-traveled, and, most importantly, loved music. Originally, we were introduced at a mutual friend’s birthday party at The Woods (I know, classic). We spent most of the party talking, and after I told him that my favorite burger was at Piano’s, along with their $5 happy hour margarita (I lived around the corner), he suggested we go together so he could try one. From there, we ended up at his place, listening to music in his apartment for hours.

We texted the next day, but he never asked me out again. By the end of that summer, I heard he was in a new relationship, and we never crossed paths again. Until three years later, during a Mercury Retrograde. 

It was August, and I had just spent my summer vacation at my parents’ house. I wasn’t totally ready to come back to the city just yet, but my friend was in town from LA, and I wanted to catch up with her. I distinctly remember feeling reluctant about whether or not to stay in Westchester one more night, but in the end, I decided to get on the train and head back to my apartment. It felt like my own sliding doors moment. 

My friend and I met at our usual spot, Rintintin, in Nolita. And as soon as we stepped out of the restaurant, there he was standing on the corner of Elizabeth and Prince Street with a friend. We embraced and introduced our friends, and curiosity about his relationship status immediately popped into my mind. My friend and I didn’t have plans beyond dinner, so when he told us that he was headed to a dance party in the Lower East Side and invited us to join—I had my answer: he was single.  

John and I were the last ones standing at the end of the night so he walked me to my same apartment around the corner from Piano’s. We stood outside talking for an hour. He told me his three-year relationship had just ended a few months prior. As always, our conversations turned to music. We pulled out our phones, followed each other on Spotify, agreed to send each other some music, and said goodnight. 

I was giddy. I still felt that little spark from him as I did when we first met. 

The next day, I realized I didn’t have his phone number anymore, and I wasn’t certain he had mine. But when I opened my Spotify, as I did every morning, John had already sent me several songs through Spotify DMs. The first song he sent me was Warm by SG Lewis, which sounds exactly like the title. His taste in music matched mine perfectly. We were both on a similar wavelength of deep, sultry, electronic R&B music. It became a fun game to find just the right songs I thought he would like, and I could tell he took the same care in selecting songs for me—he almost always nailed it.

For two weeks, we sent music back and forth and chatted only through Spotify DMs. (Note: I was devastated when they removed this feature because our conversation history was gone.) There was something so charming and wholesome about exploring our connection through music, something we both felt very passionate about. In fact, for any man that I’ve ever had an unforgettable connection with, music has been deeply intertwined. A man who doesn’t want to exchange music with me is not the man for me. I think the music sharing vs texting also removed a lot of anxiety that I might’ve felt in this early stage of dating. At the same time, I wasn’t exactly sure where any of this was leading, but the tension was building, and I was itching for him to ask me out on a date. 

So, I took the initiative to get us one step closer and invited him to a party that a few friends and I were throwing in the neighborhood. And my plan worked because we had our first kiss that night, and predictably, he walked me home at the end of the party. My roommate always used to say that my secret weapon was getting guys to walk me home but never letting them upstairs. 

Then, on my dimly lit street corner came John’s big reveal: he was emotionally unavailable. He told me he was still processing his breakup and wanted to spend time with me but wanted to keep things casual. Without a hint of reluctance, I agreed to his terms. I was single, and it felt serendipitous to have this second chance, but also, what was I supposed to do? Say no to this hot guy? I soon learned that John didn’t actually know how to be casual. He was a relationship guy. So, he offered to come over to keep me company when I had to cover an awards show from home. He took me to nice dinners, dancing at Bembe, and live shows like Toro Y Moi and Alina Barasz (whom we both discovered during our music sharing). It was impossible not to catch feelings for him.

Our “casual” relationship lasted about five or six weeks before my rose-tinted glasses were ripped off. I went over to his apartment for a sleepover one night before he was leaving on a work trip, and as soon as I stepped inside, something was off. He seemed despondent. When I asked him what was going on, he shared that he had bumped into his ex-girlfriend that day. It was the first time they had seen each other since the breakup. He was emotional. I could no longer pretend he was mine. As much as he said he cared for me, he was unable to be present with me. He still asked me to stay the night, but I told him I couldn’t. I took it as a sign—it was time to get out. 

As I walked back to my apartment, I felt a pit in my stomach, that feeling that told me that relationships never worked out in my favor. I was crushed; it felt so unfair. This gorgeous man that I had so much fun with had come back into my life, but yet again, it stalled out. On the other hand, it also felt like a turning point for me—I put myself first—I didn’t know I had it in me.

I was served up a much-needed lesson in letting go. We can’t control how long people stay in our lives. This was a very prominent theme and a growing insecurity for me, love affairs that fizzled as quickly as they started. Was there something wrong with me? Was it them? How did I keep attracting men who were into me but weren’t quite up for the task? I know the answers to those questions now, but back then, it was so hard not to feel as though these situations defined my loveability or were an indicator that I was deeply flawed in some way. 

It’s only recently that I’ve found myself in a place where I’ve been able to confront how often I’ve been a willing participant in my own suffering.

I abandoned what I wanted deep down (a real relationship) to receive a fraction of what I deserved. This was no fault to John—he had been honest and upfront with me from the start. Luckily, he was a decent guy who treated me with more care than the ones that came before him, but I also had to take responsibility for my own decisions. I certainly wasn’t able to see that in my twenties, I was just being led by my unconscious wounds. I was chasing a feeling. I wanted someone to repair what was wounded inside of me. If this great guy returned my affection, I was worthy, but when he couldn’t, I wasn’t worthy. When things crumbled, it was much easier to appoint myself the victim. 

Maybe when he’s healed from his breakup, he’ll reach out to me. I tried to tell myself to hold onto some semblance of hope that this was a case of the right person, wrong timing, and that we’d find each other one last time. I never heard from him again, but I’ll always have the music.