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The Austin Weekend

September 7, 2025

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In 2020 at a major tech company, I met someone who changed everything in the span of about six weeks.

We were both remote recruiters on the same team. The chemistry was instant and relentless. We would have two conversations running simultaneously, one over Slack for work and another over text for everything else. Hours would disappear into these layered discussions about recruiting, life, random observations, whatever. It was limitless.

I remember scrolling through her Instagram photos for the first time when I discovered she was a lesbian. I guess the math didn’t work out for me, after all. Or so I thought.

After several more weeks of constant texting, she asked me something unusual.

“Would you ever date me?”

“Yes.”

I didn’t even think about my reply. It was simply true, and I just said it. I felt no fear or vulnerability, no risk of rejection. She was unavailable to me; therefore, this must be some kind of hypothetical, intellectual exercise.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

That’s approximately how it started.

We immediately went into planning & logistics. Eventually I would relocate to Austin. For now, I would come to visit in four weeks. If we could keep the intensity for that long, we’d have a strong foundation.

We maintained it with plenty to spare. The month flew by with the same dual-conversation energy. I booked the flight.

Austin exceeded every expectation. The chemistry translated perfectly to in-person interaction. We talked the same way face-to-face as we had through screens. The physical connection worked. We had sex and it was excellent. Everything about the weekend was clicking exactly as we’d hoped.

Then I did something incredibly dumb.

Before heading out the second day, I took a small hit from my weed vape. She took one too, in solidarity. It seemed harmless. I’ve done this thousands of times in my life. Here we had a tiny, shared moment before exploring the city.

Except, we both got ridiculously high.

I became weird and uncoordinated. She got paranoid and uncomfortable. What should have been a fun day out turned into an awkward nightmare where we were both trapped inside altered versions of ourselves.

When we got back to the hotel room, she quietly collected her things and left. I bought a ticket home that night.

It was over like that.

The smallest possible miscalculation at the worst possible moment. Everything that mattered had worked perfectly; the emotional connection, the physical compatibility, the practical logistics.

Six weeks of building something rare, a perfect weekend confirming it was real, then thirty minutes of being the wrong versions of ourselves when first impressions were everything.

Thirty minutes that undid everything we’d built and everything we could have been.

The Linen Closet

August 24, 2025

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Luna vanished the day the contractors came.

The front door had been left open. Not for long, maybe a minute, just long enough. She wasn’t used to the noise, wasn’t used to the outdoors, and in that moment of panic, she must’ve bolted. That was the story. It made sense. There was no sign of her inside the house. I assumed the worst, because it looked like the worst. And once you decide something like that, it calcifies.

I canvassed the neighborhood with printed flyers. I walked the streets calling her name. I left food out and knocked on doors. I was methodical. I left no stone unturned, outside.

I never opened the linen closet.

Instead, I hired a pet detective. A real one with tracking dogs, cameras, cages, all of it. They followed her scent through the neighborhood and stopped a few blocks away. It was high alert; it felt promising. A woman nearby said a new black cat had been showing up at her house. The timing lined up. We gave her the trap and she agreed to monitor it.

But then it got worse.

A man contacted me. Said he’d found a black cat that looked like Luna a few blocks from my house. He sent a blurry photo, just enough to stir hope, not enough to confirm anything. He said he’d bring her to me, but needed gas money first. It was a scam. I knew it. But I was desperate and exhausted. I had handed him a flyer myself. Spoken to him in person. He was supposed to be one of the good guys.

I paid him. He asked for more. I blocked him.

A week passed with nothing happening, no trap results or footage. Just silence. My cat was gone. My hope was gone. I felt sick every time I opened the front door.

And then, for no reason I can name, I opened the linen closet.

She was in there. Alive and calm, just curled behind the towels.

She blinked at me, then walked to the litter box, and nuzzled Roy. Nothing about her behavior suggested trauma. She had been locked in that closet for a week, and she was fine.

I had never looked there. Not once. Because I knew she had gone outside. I’d watched the door hang open. I’d played the story in my head. It made so much sense that I didn’t question it. I never even noticed the closet was closed.

And because of that, because I knew she was outside, I gave a flyer to the man who would scam me. I searched the whole neighborhood. I hired a tracker. I cried. I barely ate. And I left my cat in the closet.

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It’s a strange thing, I haven’t tried writing for a bit of a spell. It’s extraordinarily difficult, this thing.

I have to wonder how it is that people do it on command, and regularly at that. I mean I understand the pull of it, which is why I dabble here and there. It’s sexy, really, this whole thing. First ideas and creativity, made tangible and packaged for delivery. And the presentation, to turn all that solitude and introspection into something that resembles a conversation, incredible.

I haven’t forgotten about this thing, this old blog. It occupies a peculiarly significant space in my identity. I think about it often, the secret part of me that wishes I was something I’ve never become; the writer, creative and insightful.

Sure I lack for drive and discipline; but far beyond than that I feel there’s nothing to say. I’ve been toying with this topic for a while. Yeah I’d love to do this thing, writing. But for every blog/journal I see of someone chronicling their life events, I’m more interested in identifying with their character than I am by their raw content. And, me being subject to the same rules, I find this paralyzing.

I ought to hit Post before I reevaluate my decision and get lost in particulars and possibilities 🙂