I studied the photo of my crush in Army fatigues, sporting a military buzz cut and black shades that reminded me of the Secret Service, and wondered what he had with the girl on his arm that merited her the Facebook relationship status we'd never had.

We'd met on a weekend college trip to DC. The first night, the bus took us all to a restaurant for dinner. He gave me a boyish grin as he slipped into the seat next to me. Next thing I knew, we were so intensely involved in the conversation that we barely noticed the wait staff. I had started to explore an interest in politics; he was a staunch Republican. He defended the need for war; I questioned the necessity for violence. The next four hours flew by, the rest of the students fading into the background; we couldn't seem to stop talking to each other.

Afterwards we all walked through a park in pitch darkness. Somehow he and I got separated from the rest of the students, but I realized I didn't feel unsafe. He put his arm around me. Back on the bus, he beamed when I offered him a bit of my snack.

The next day, I watched him come through a metal detector at Capitol Hill. He was wearing a black dress shirt and matching trousers, putting his belt back on, stowing his wallet back into his pants. He seemed to have a thousand little black objects that made me think of a kit Jason Bourne might carry. I was fascinated by the military from reading espionage thrillers, and while I was growing to see moral issues with some of its activities, he felt like that fascination come to life. He just seemed so solid, so sure of his convictions. He was putting his life where his mouth was at a time when I was only exploring what I might think and believe. He was a mystery I had to solve.

He grabbed my hand as we toured the Capitol. A few minutes later he let it go. I was stupid: I didn't realize that he couldn't plainly see what I so intensely felt, that he'd taken a risk and felt rejected when I didn't reach for his hand in return. As we waited for the ride back, I asked if he wanted to take a walk. He nodded, got up, and walked off. I'd meant with me.

I'd hoped to sit with him on the five-hour bus ride home, but by the time I boarded, he had claimed the empty seats in the back and gone to sleep. I was disappointed, but I didn't want to disturb him. It didn't occur to me then that I'd made him feel unwanted and he was shutting down.

Still, we found each other on Facebook and spent the summer arguing politics over instant messenger. We ran into each other on campus one day after summer classes. He led me down to the privacy of the keypad-protected ROTC lounge. We squeezed together on the small couch. He leaned in, the chemistry palpable as we kissed.

And then a long-haired beauty called Pam appeared. The two of them were Facebook-official, standing close together in photographs, looking as if they shared a secret bond to which no one else was privy. What did she have that I didn't? What was between them that wasn't between us?

They lasted two weeks. He told me afterward that she was a…not very nice person. He asked me out afterwards, but our conversations remained cerebral: discussions about the political direction of the nation, never anything personal. He still felt like an impenetrable wall, like that stoic Secret Service agent I'd envisioned, chest out in defense, his heart encased in a bulletproof shell.

Desperate to understand him better and not knowing how to cut through the steel between us, I dug through his Facebook history. I found sentimental, regretful messages to a pretty brunette who seemed swallowed up by rage at the loss of her beloved grandmother. It was easy to put together: he was hung up on her. I mustered up the courage to ask him about it. "Bingo," he responded, as if congratulating me for divining what he'd been trying to hide. She'd left him because she suspected he only wanted her body; he wished he'd never asked because she "meant the world" to him. They were still in touch. He sounded tortured as he confided in me about the state of their relationship: she'd complain about her problems; he'd keep sticking his neck out and coping with the sting of rejection every time she agreed to a date and then changed her mind.

I thought that meant the end for us. I assumed his heart belonged to her, and until he came to terms with that, no one else would really stand a chance. But the following year, he married someone new.

Looking back all these years later, I can see that I was at least as unavailable as he. I had not yet learned the necessity for communication and warmth. I wasn't expressive enough to comfort his vulnerability in those instances when he took the risk of showing it. I assumed he could see my intense interest as well as I felt it: how could he not when it was consuming me? But I think he really had no idea. It took me a long time to realize that my childhood had trained me not to show emotion. I must have felt so cold to him even as he was burning me up.

I'd thought he was the one wearing a full suit of armor, but it was I who had my shield up, ready for battle.

Shreya is a compulsive diarist with a background in business. She appreciates silent mornings, enjoys classics, and watches trash telenovelas under the guise of learning Spanish.