Two Langdon,
Two Stories

Two stories, two decades apart—one night of reckoning, another of quiet realization—both unfolding on Langdon Street, where love, longing, and the weight of unspoken truths find their place in the city’s memory.

Madison, Wisconsin, is a city of lakes and layered lives. Here, love winds its way into the corners of quiet streets and the conversations of strangers. Langdon Street, running parallel to the hum of the University of Wisconsin, has always been a backdrop for stories of love. Some are fleeting, like fireflies on a summer night. Others stretch, bend, and reshape themselves over decades.

Seven Years Ago

It was 6:02 AM on a humid August Madison morning, warm and hazy with the smell of blue-green algae coming off Lake Mendota. The students were just returning, and they didn’t want to miss an opportunity to have a party. Langdon Street had been electric the night before — music, laughter, bodies spilling from porches — but now, it seemed to hold its breath. The air felt thick, sticky with the ghosts of cheap beer and sweat. A lone student, still in last night’s clothes, shuffled past with his shoes in one hand and a McMuffin in the other.

Red Solo cups littered front yards, the debris of a thousand unspoken stories.

My Uber app pinged, and I was brought back to the present: pickup at Two Langdon, destination Marriott in Middleton.

Tommy stepped out of the apartment building, his white shirt off by one button, his hair a mess of effort and exhaustion.

“Hi,” he said, leaning into the open passenger window. “Mind if I sit up front? I get motion sickness if I sit in the back seat.”

“Of course,” I said, unlocking the door.

He climbed in, buckled up, and exhaled heavily. His sigh carried the weight of something tangled.

“Thanks. It’s been... a night.”

We drove in silence for a moment before he turned to me.

“Can I ask you something personal?”

“Go for it.”

“Are you gay?”

The question caught me off guard for half a second. “Yeah,” I said, smiling. “What gave it away?”

“Your bumper sticker,” he said, nodding toward the Human Rights Campaign logo. “My brother’s gay. You just give off the same vibe.”

“Well, good guess.”

More silence. Then:

“Last night, I hooked up with someone.”

“How’d that go?”

“It was amazing. She’s amazing,” he said before pausing. “But... she’s my best friend’s sister.”

I glanced at him. “That’s complicated.”

“Yeah,” he said with a nervous laugh. “But it wasn’t just random. I like her. I think I’ve always liked her.”

“How long?”

“Forever, probably. But I never let myself think about it. Last night... it just happened. And now I can’t stop thinking about her.”

He told me about his long-term relationship — how it had ended, how it had defined so much of his early adulthood.

“Last night was the first time I felt like I could move forward.”

By the time we reached the Marriott, Tommy seemed lighter, like he’d left some of his hesitation in the car.

“Thanks for listening,” he said, stepping out.

Two Langdon Street, for Tommy, had become more than an address. It was the moment where something shifted, where a quiet truth surfaced.

Almost Thirty Years Ago

Two Langdon Street meant something different to me.

Decades before Tommy’s morning ride, it was where I lived as a student. But I met Davin at the School of Music — a friend, a classmate, a grad student. Older, impossibly charming, magnetic in a way that made people feel like they belonged.

For two years, we were inseparable. Baking. Watching movies. Closing out bars. But most nights, I walked home alone while Davin stayed behind, flirting or hooking up with someone new.

It was an interesting time. I was very, very large. Probably 280 pounds. It’s incredible how the bigger you are at a gay bar, the more invisible you feel. You could plant yourself at the bar, sip a drink, and watch the room move right through you. Once, a guy bumped into me, turned to apologize, and then blinked like he was seeing me for the first time — even though I’d been standing there for 45 minutes.

That summer, I worked at UPS, shedding 70 pounds and gaining muscle. People noticed. Even Ben, Davin’s shallow boyfriend, noticed.

Davin didn’t.

Not in the way I wanted.

We had planned to move to Boston together, but I left six months earlier. I had to, as the start of my first semester at the New England Conservatory of Music was about to commence. By the time Davin arrived, I had found my independence.

Boston brought new beginnings. Including Julie.

Julie had been a good friend in undergrad, but in Boston, she became something more — a steadying force when I felt like I might drift away.

She was an amazing listener, the kind who absorbed not just words but the emotions behind them. She never rushed to offer solutions or platitudes; she just sat with me in the hard moments, letting me process at my own pace.

Julie had a way of making people feel truly seen. And she reminded me that my story wasn’t just about unrequited love — it was about how I chose to move forward.

She had a bright smile, beautifully coiffed hair, and a love for red — especially her shoes. Whether it was a scarf, a handbag, or those unforgettable heels, red followed her like a signature.

When I told her about Davin — about the weight of loving someone who couldn’t love me back — she didn’t offer false optimism or tell me to be grateful for the friendship.

She just nodded, exhaled, and said, “That’s brutal.”

It was exactly what I needed: acknowledgment.

Julie helped me redefine love — not just the kind you ache for, but the kind you build. With people who show up. Who listen. Who stay.

Love and Place

Stories don’t just happen in cities — they settle into them. Into street corners and shadowed doorways. Into the places that once held uncertainty and now hum with meaning.

For Tommy, Langdon Street was the place where a quiet longing surfaced.

For me, it was where I learned that love — whether fleeting, complicated, or unspoken — doesn’t always fit the story we want to tell.

Some places change. Some don’t. Some people stay. Some don’t.

And some stories just hang in the air, waiting for someone else to pick them up.

This is a work of creative nonfiction. The events are true, though details have been adjusted for clarity, and some names have been changed to protect privacy.

Author’s Note: This is a work of creative nonfiction. While the events and emotions are true, some details have been adjusted for clarity, and names have been changed to protect privacy. Creative nonfiction blends fact with literary technique—dialogue, scene-setting, and reflection—to shape real experiences into a compelling narrative.