SULLIVAN BAKER | To Hear Remembered Chimes: Love Beyond Cornell

As the rapids roared below us and the suspension bridge swayed in a Fall Creek February gale, she laughed with me (and at me) the way she’d done countless times before. She reminded me of the legend that says you’ll die if you kiss on the bridge. She made some crack about the smell of the Thai bubble tea on my breath. And she said something about how I shouldn’t hate her for not liking boba. Though I don’t remember her exact words, I vividly remember mine.


Sometimes, I wish I could feel love as intensely as I did when I was 13, chasing after a boy who didn’t even like me and who I once blew behind an elementary school. It was my first heartbreak. I remember feeling it so vividly because it was the first time my emotions had conjured real, physical pain, like dropping 20-pound weights on my chest. When I was a high school sophomore, love felt more substantial because it was reciprocated, but I was just as naive. “I love you,” my first boyfriend Cameron said, looking straight into my eyes, a minute or two into our first time together.