I got out of a white Toyota Corolla and slammed the door as hard as I could. I walked back to my dorm room expecting a ring-covered hand to grab my arm before I made it inside, a kiss in the rain, or even a tearful goodbye at the very least. Instead, I was met with dry disappointment that gave me the worst cottonmouth of my life.  

When I made it inside the hot pink, LED-illuminated room, I looked at myself in the mirror hanging behind my door. "You really did it this time", I said to the red-eyed reflection. I then proceeded to down a bottle of Malibu, come out to my mother on the telephone, and write my assignment for my Women Playwrights class. That assignment was titled Love Letters from the Bottom of the Bottle. 

Writing this play kept me sane during a time when I felt I was never on solid ground. In the midst of all the goodbyes of unrequited love and senior year, the fear of rejection for my queerness, and the doom of adulthood glaring at me with its big red eye, I needed to remind myself of what did stay. And who would, in fact, love me forever.