Late one night in the 1980s, I was tackling a gnarly physics problem in my dorm room at Harvard. My bedroom was sparsely furnished – unlike that of my neighbour, who had not only hired movers but likely an interior decorator as well for hers – but it was all mine. I rubbed my eyes as I scribbled equations on a notepad. It was long past midnight and the darkness beyond the small circle of light cast by my single lamp seemed immense. This was all I’d ever wanted, I told myself. As a first-generation Chinese immigrant who had grown up in poverty, I knew I was beyond fortunate.
Still, something bothered me. I’d developed an intense friendship earlier that year with a guy I’d met. He had a smokey voice and liquid eyes, and was wildly passionate about political causes I’d never considered. We weren’t in love, not exactly. We were both dating (several) other people, but we were at that age when the boundary between friendship and romance isn’t set in stone. He often stayed over in my room after our long talks and he slept in my bed, spooning me. It was comforting and delightful and nothing happened – OK, maybe with an exception or two. But neither of us took those rare incidents to mean anything.
