FLASH FICTION BY: Rosamaria Davila
ARTIST STATEMENT: I wrote this piece to explore a relationship that shaped me over more than a decade, one that constantly shifted between love, friendship, loss, and return. As I revisited each year, I realized the story wasn’t just about the person I once thought I was meant to be with, but about the journey that led me to the woman I truly love now. Writing this allowed me to confront the timing, faith changes, distance, and emotional detours that kept pulling us together and apart. I wanted to show how some connections don’t end, they transform, and those transformations can guide you toward the life and love you were meant to find.
ABOUT THE PHOTO
"Toyota Supra Mk3," by Ziaul Huq
I created this piece to capture the intersection between nostalgia and modern car culture. I was inspired by the diverse atmosphere of the people and the weekend car meets where everyone gets to show off their creations. This car caught my eye immediately. A classic and iconic car every car enthusiast knows, the Toyota mk3 Supra! A car that was rebuilt and designed to please the eyes.
ABOUT THIS STORY
Introduction by Prof. Dan Ryan
I asked my Introduction to Studies in Maleness and Manhood students to craft a piece of flash fiction in the style of Bryan Washington's acclaimed New Yorker piece, "How Many."
Flash is a beast. Most of us can't craft a wedding speech in under 1,000 words, let alone a work of literature. But Rosamaria saw that Washington's story, with its drum-tight structure, leaves out far more than it includes; she followed suit, selecting only the moments she deemed crucial as she charted a 15-year relationship between two women.
The result is hot, sad, thrilling, moving, mystifying, frustrating, and heartbreaking——just like love.
2011
You meet at a friend’s rooftop party, beer sweating in your hands. You both hate the music. You dance anyway. You say something about how everyone looks bored and she laughs, the kind that fills the space between songs. You could listen to that laugh forever.
2012
You become We. She brings you coffee before work, calls you Baby Girl like she’s naming a secret. You start imagining a life with matching mugs.
2013
You break up. You’ll “just be friends.” It sounds adult, manageable. It isn’t. You text each other good morning for three months. You cry at stoplights.
2014
Somehow, you do become friends. Not just friends, the kind that knows how the other likes her fries salted, how she tilts her head when she lies. You build new stories over the ruins.
2015
You call her your best friend. She calls you her favorite person. Feels like cheating on heartbreak itself.
2016
You take a trip upstate, see stars neither of you knew New York still had. Feels like something holy.
2017
You talk about other people now, the ones you’re dating. Trying to. You tell her about the one who doesn’t text back. She tells you about the one who’s too clingy. You both pretend not to notice the silence between your sentences.
2018
You start collecting memories. Road trips, birthdays. Kitchen dances. You don’t say “I love you,” but you both know. You go to a concert together. You sing too loud, she loses her voice. You share a hotel bed. Nothing happens, but everything does.
2019
You’re both in relationships that feel like holding your breath underwater. One night, she says, “I think I’m in love with you.” You laugh. Truth sounds like déjà vu.
2020
The world stops. She sells her businesses, packs her car, drives to Florida. You wave goodbye through a cracked FaceTime screen, pixels blurring.
2021
She joins the Jehovah’s Witnesses. You Google what that means.
2022
You think about her knocking on doors, preaching things you know she doesn’t fully believe. You send her birthday messages anyway.
2023
She leaves the congregation. You start talking again, slow at first, then daily. About faith, love, who you are now. She says, “I missed my best friend.” You say, “I missed my home.”
2024
You’re both in new relationships, building lives that look fine on paper. You FaceTime every night anyway.
2025
You still call each other Baby Girl by accident. You still make each other laugh until your ribs ache.
2026
You wonder if this is what forever looks like. Not perfect, not planned, just two women finding their way back, again and again, across years, across faith, across states, across everything but love.
