The author and Rupesh were at a medical school Halloween party. The photo was taken by Anita Vijayakumar. I don't think masks and gloves make me anxious. They make me want the man I couldn't have. There is a rating for this. Rupesh grabbed his wallet and ran into the rain, like he was going to Target. He admitted that he couldn't suppress his feelings for me anymore. I said I appreciated his honesty, but he needed to fix things with his girlfriend. I didn't tell him that I felt the same way. I didn't say I'd been eyeing budget tickets to Greece on Orbitz, imagining us cliff-diving in Santorini, sipping ouzo on the beach. I only had $7 in savings, but my daydreams defy reality and basic math. In my first year of medical school, I was full of doubt but didn't show it. Rupesh was in my class. I imagined we'd live by the river when we retired. I learned from complicated relationships that strength and vulnerability don't intersect. I told Rups not to throw away his four-year relationship with a lab partner with smudgy glasses after he admitted how he felt about me. I didn't put up much of a fight for him. I told myself that I was a strong woman who made brilliant decisions. He hurried through the rain to his car. The engine was not running. I hoped that fate would intervene. He looked in his mirror. We were too far apart to see each other. The engine revved up. He faded into the storm and then vanished in a flash of lightning. There is a rating for this. A professor said that blood cells bring oxygen to build new tissue. My heart had fissures that hadn't healed fully. I did not want another wound to make me stronger. I didn't want to have to rebuild my tissues again. But driving away was the only person who made me feel stronger without my armor. I was terrified. I wanted to chase him down. The boots I just bought sat in the corner. They might fly at that price. I didn't move. Love's vulnerability had burned me before. I would not make the same mistake twice. He had to think about his feelings. What had I just done? We hovered over the body of an elderly woman in the lab five months before the storm. His eyes looked over his mask. He asked if he wanted to grab a beer later. I thought about all my invitations. I pretended to think while he waited. After a couple months, I couldn’t control the dopamine flooding my synapses every time he passed me a scalpel. I forced myself to make appropriate-length eye contact ― I worried too short would reveal nervousness and too long would reveal desire. Murphy's, the campus pub on Green Street, was where we were. Our group of med students got buzzed on a lot of Bud Light. We teased one of our classmates about how he wrote on the board. He drank his beer to demonstrate good stomach. There were some moments when Rups shone. His humor shifted from highbrow to slapstick. I was so sore from laughing that I could not work out. The biggest turn-on was his intelligence. He was handsome. He told us that his mother covered his nose when he was born because she was afraid the villagers in their small Indian town would curse its elegance with the Evil Eye. He didn't know how to drive a stick. He didn't like tennis. He hadn't read anything by Rushdie. Like, ever. I reasoned that he was not perfect. He was in a long-distance relationship. He disappeared from campus on Friday afternoons to go to his girlfriend's house. We didn't know her name. He never made that our business, despite rumors that they had been having issues for a while. I didn't ask. I was not going to invite another problem into my life. We partied and studied together. At the end of our hang-outs, the two of us remained. After a few months, I couldn't control the dopamine that was flooding my brain when he passed me a scalpel. I had to make an eye contact that was long enough to show desire and nervousness. I caught him looking at me, but he didn't look at me. Was it sad? Was there a lump of abdominal fat on my cheek? You never knew what was going on in our situation. I knew this guy was dangerous. He drew me to the lab when I should have been at the library, partying or sleeping. How many times could I find the blood supply in the body? Both of us knew that our lab times were an excuse. We spent a lot of time with the attention we couldn't show each other. We were supposed to be clinical as medical students. It was Decisive. It was nearly incomprehensible. We wanted to be perfect but we knew it was impossible. We learned from our mistakes. We had to. Medicine mistakes are not always ok. The consequences were dire if we didn't learn our lesson the first time. I was the girl who stared at her phone. When the guy didn't call, they made excuses. Ignored the fact that he was with someone. I was floored by my last break up. It was re-calibrated. A line from Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" became my motto, "All I have ever learned from love is how to shoot somebody who outdrew you." I learned to replace harmful segments in my genes with healthy tissue. Rups had to be changed. The author and Rupesh traveled to Hawaii in 2004. The photo was taken by Anita Vijayakumar. There is a rating for this. We returned to our homes after Christmas Break. It was torture to think about him. I asked to see a picture of his girlfriend before we left. She looked like someone from theDawson's Creek era. I looked at my scrubs and hands. No matter how much Pureology I used, my hair smelled like Purell. Who was messing with me? The way he looked at me. It didn't matter. I promised to find a new lab partner. Go it alone. All my intentions were ruined when we returned to campus. We began spending more time together as friends. The guise was becoming flimsy. It's hard to pretend when the other person has the same feelings. He dropped the pretense by mid-February. He looked into my eyes like he was searching for something. I did not look away. He kissed me after he said he had feelings for me. I turned away. I was not going to be that girl again. I told you to fix your relationship. He admitted that I was correct. I was not sure if I was being strong or foolish. Probably both. I learned that admitting my feelings was a risk. He revealed his, but what? I tried mixing strength and vulnerability before. As the oldest child of immigrants sacrificing old worlds to find security in the new, it wasn't an option to pursue a career in writing. I told a love how I felt. That was also shut down. The risks began to align with vulnerability more than strength. Maybe Rups would have been different. I deviated off the straight and narrow course I chose to make myself vulnerable to him. I hadn't learned from my mistakes. Rain fell around me as he drove away. When daylight opened my eyes, I imagined that the man I wanted to cross from me in the lab to the booth at Murphy's was across the pillow. Damn it! I decided I couldn't let the lessons I'd already learned end up being the end of my learning. There were some mistakes that needed to be repeated. I called him. It went to the phone. I have feelings for you as well. I made ten more calls and texts over the next few hours, but I didn't get an answer. He was making up with his girlfriend. I was just a foolish girl. I tried, but it was too late. It was over before it started. I heard a knock on my door that night as I cried while watchingDawson's Creek and picked at leftover pad thai. There stood Rups, soaking wet, holding a six-pack of root beer in one hand, and a scoop of ice cream in the other. He smiled at me. The author and her husband were married in 2005. The photo was taken by Anita Vijayakumar. The rain turned to ice. It was a major risk. They got into a fight when he called to tell her. He turned his car around. He whispered, "My risks are for you." There is a rating for this. Rupesh wears a surgical mask when I see him. The cords behind his ears were blue. When our fingers accidentally brush, I am reminded of a med student who doubted strength and vulnerability could intersect. I take a deep breath. It was not true. The two need each other. I am no longer worried about my anxiety. My focus has changed. Sometimes we need to make a second mistake. A Chicago-based writer and psychiatrist is named Anita Vijayakumar. She writes about mental health and belonging. She finished a novel about two Indian orphans, their hidden past, and their entwined search for identity. You can find her on social media. The author and Rupesh ride a bike. The photo was taken by Anita Vijayakumar. Do you want your story to be published on HuffPost? Send us a pitch if you know what we're looking for. The article was originally on HuffPost. 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