The departures by way of detention and deportation that I see on the news, wrenching scenes of love being pulled apart, hit a delicate spot in me and make me ache. My heart once housed similar fears of separation.

He and I first smiled at each other one night almost 20 years ago in Café Remy, a favorite downtown Manhattan spot for the area’s financial workers. With the humid August air making his dark thick hair a cherubic mess, I thought, “Hey, Angel Boy, you look so cute. Where did you get that crazy hair?”

I was feeling happy and bold because I was finally free from my previous boyfriend, who had broken up with me but kept me tethered with claims of “I love you” and “I miss you” and “I just need time.” He failed to mention that he needed time to pursue someone else. I spent the next few months rolling around on my floor, drinking wine and crying into my journals.

But in his absence, I started to understand how stifled I had been with someone who was happiest staying at home with his computer and television shows. In social situations with my friends, he always seemed adorably awkward, until the day he said, “I’m not shy. I just don’t want to expend my energy on them.”