A car ride.
Yesterday I saw you. For a moment, I could finally breathe. My mind was empty, and nothing else mattered except this exact moment right here with you in my car, driving wherever our impulsivity would take us. You told me about your life—again, surface-level things—while I lied about mine and the fact that I don’t have anybody in it right now. Once again, I did the only thing I’m currently good at: making a false impression of myself. I was terrified of your direct questions, but I knew that if I thought about them for a little too long, you’d get suspicious that I wasn’t telling the truth. So I answered as quickly as I could.
“Is there anybody new?”
“No, I don’t want anything to do with anyone right now,” I said as I kept looking straight ahead, pretending I was focusing on the road while driving my car.
The truth is, I knew that if I looked you in the eyes, you would’ve known I was lying. And like every liar ever, I felt the need to continue.
“Uh, I don’t know… I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, I just don’t. It just takes a lot of energy when you engage with somebody.”
And this is what I recently learned: if you don’t want to answer a question, you can just redirect it.
I have a friend who’s very good at it. I used to get mad at him; now I just know he’s very secretive. He cares a lot about the way he’s perceived, and so do I, but I always say it’s not like that. He doesn’t know I’m terrified of direct questions, of observant people, or intuitive ones—especially if they have faith in themselves and you can’t convince them they’re delusional. I’m one of those people, and I’m scared of meeting somebody like me. “Thank God,” I said to myself, “he can’t see the truth.” Or maybe he just doesn’t care as much. Both are in my favor.
As I kept driving, we finally found the place we’d been searching for. I stopped the car, and we continued talking about the same surface-level things. And you were happy to see me—I didn’t know why. Was it the fact that I made you wait one month for this hangout, or the fact that I’ve been acting distant that’s pulling you closer? Either way, I didn’t care. All I cared about was me, once again. I was happy that I felt free.
Your expressive energy made my inner world quiet down for a moment. Your playfulness made it all seem like a kids’ game. The purity in your eyes and your love—as I interpreted it—made me feel like I made somebody happy for once, just by being myself. I was sick of their tears haunting me every night before I fell asleep, sick of their pain that I constantly felt in my heart. I went out with you and left my phone alone so I could finally live for a few hours with nothing on my mind.
Then I saw his text asking if I was home already. I didn’t want to lie, so I just answered when I got home. Again, he’s completely clueless that I went out with you. It gets heavier.
I quickly told myself to snap out of it—so I did.
As I became quiet, half in my mind and half here with you, you didn’t ask me a single question. I was grateful.
“Look, a shooting star! Did you see that?” I gasped as I saw one for the first time ever, so randomly.
“No, where?”
“It was over there. I can’t believe I saw that.”
“Wait, really?”
“Yes, keep looking and you might see another.”
It was so beautiful. Freedom, shooting stars, you. Finally, I felt free, as if I could be myself without everything that’s inherently wrong with me. You made me forget about it for a moment. December really is a special month. It was the month we first started talking. Now, four years later, we are once again together. I knew, deep inside my heart, I never wanted to let you go. You were that purity, that realness, I never wanted to get rid of. We were so different, but you always accepted me as I am. Nobody else made me feel this free. I know that if I tell you that, you’ll probably deny my reality, so I’ll keep it to myself—not because I want to seem attached to you, but because it’s simply true.
