Something Real Together

Do you ever feel like you’re more than one person? Like people see you as someone other than who you really are?

There could be so many versions of us as we exist in the minds of others, each one unique based on the perceptions of whoever we interact with. Maybe it’s because we behave differently with certain people. Maybe it’s their doing entirely, and the way they choose to see us remains completely out of our control. 

For me, that happens with love. I don’t mean that I behave differently when I’m around people I’m interested in (though if I’m being honest, I totally do that). What I mean is that for every person I’ve been with, or wanted to be with, two versions of them always exist: the person I create in my head out of sheer fantasy and desire, and the person they turn out to be. The person they are.

My first boyfriend and I didn’t last long. His name was Carson, and we met in June at an ice cream stand in town. Once school started back up we got together fast, so I didn’t spend too much time with Fantasy Carson; let’s call him Considerate Carson. 

Considerate Carson played on the soccer team and had thought about me all summer long. He would write me cards and letters, carry my backpack as he walked me to class and invite me over for movie marathons. The fantasy of us played out before me like a montage, perfect moments all strung together. 

We’d been dating for a while, and Considerate Carson wasn’t doing any of that for me. He wasn’t a writer, he said, and he could sometimes barely sit through one movie before getting restless. Carson would rather play cards or cook dinner together or go for a run. 

“I’m sorry, Ava,” he said. “That’s just who I am.”

So clearly, we were never going to work.

After that ended I fell hard and fast for a girl named Maggie, and we’ve been together ever since. The night we met was one of those perfect nights; we talked for hours and hours outside a house party. She pushed me on the old swing set and told me the funniest stories about her and her brothers growing up, and every time she went back inside, she came back with something for me; sodas, cookies, a flower she picked from someone’s garden.

I could see from then on all the ways she could make me so happy, like a dream sequence set to a romantic song. 

Generous Maggie and I have dated for almost a year, but all of her gestures seem empty these days. When we go on dates the conversation lags, and though she’s always bringing me little gifts, it feels like she’s trying to fill up the space where a real relationship is supposed to be. I haven’t seen Generous Maggie in a while, even though Maggie has been right next to me. 

This week we had a fight.

“I’m sorry, Ava,” she told me. “I just can’t be who you want me to be.”

In this movie we call life, it happens far too often that my vision of a character is shattered and they become somebody unexpected, somebody else. When this happens, when the scene plays out and my scene partner won’t say their lines, I just want to look out of the screen and say, “What the hell?” 

Maybe it seems shortsighted, but is it so wrong to enter a relationship having some idea of how we’d like to be treated, of what we deserve? Too many of my friends have cried on the phone to me after being hurt by someone they loved. 

“Know your expectations and keep them high,” I’d say to them. “The right person will be exactly who you need them to be.”

Even though I’m with Maggie, I feel like I’m still looking for that person — my person — who will never shift before my eyes. Someone who will be everything I’ve imagined they’d be.

***

“I broke up with Maggie last night.”

I’m at the art studio on campus with my friend Joey, who promptly drops a bucket of acrylic paints on their way back over to our easels. “What?!” 

A guy in the corner who’s been sketching for the past hour gives us a dirty look. I roll my eyes and lower my voice as I bend down to help Joey collect the tubes of paint. “I found out she was cheating on me.” 

“What?!” they repeat, even louder this time, dropping the paints they’d gathered and pulling me into a huge hug. We’re bent down on the floor in the middle of the studio, so they just about knock us both over. “Are you serious?” 

In a stroke of comedic timing, our classmate Astrid — who also happens to be Maggie’s roommate — walks into the room and sees us on the floor. Joey, oblivious, continues. “I’m going to absolutely punch this girl in the face.”

Astrid walks straight back into the hallway without even turning around.

“What do you need? What can I do?” Joey asks me, with zero regard for anything that’s going on around us.

“Nothing, really,” I shrug, my fists full of primary colors. I think I cried it all out last night, but if I’m honest, part of me wasn’t really surprised. 

“She hasn’t been who I thought she was,” I continue. “Not for a while.”

Joey looks down at their hands, their hair falling slightly over their face, then back up at me as they noisily shove the rest of the paints back into the bucket. “Well, nothing is an excuse for cheating, Ava,” they say. “Not even trying to live up to your expectations.”

Joey and I have been friends since freshman year. We’re in a few clubs together and, this semester, this art class. They have the funniest laugh of anyone I’ve ever met, and we take turns bringing each other coffee when we meet up to study or whatever. They’re always bringing me something flavored and full of syrup and with a name that takes thirty seconds to say. I retaliate by bringing black coffee every time, but I like those ridiculous drinks more than I’d ever let them know. 

They also know me really well, which is why I don’t immediately take offense to their comment. I’m confused, sure, but not offended. 

It was their day to bring drinks, and they hand me mine as I sit back at my canvas. I glance up and out the window of the studio; it’s overcast, and students shuffle by on their way somewhere as if to the sedated melody of a punk song, the very picture of early twenties angst. 

I turn away and look at Joey again, my best friend. “So you’re saying she should have just dumped me instead of trying to be a good partner?”

“Honestly, yeah, I am,” Joey says, the way only a best friend can. “She shouldn’t have done this, and I’ll kill her for doing it, but she was trying to be someone she wasn’t. ‘A good partner’ might mean something different to you than it does to her. Now, by cheating on you, it’s like she just proved you right, in some twisted way. And look at you, you’re not even surprised.”

“Hey, I cried all night last night,” I say with a mock defensive tone.

“And I’m sorry to hear that,” they say, focusing back on their painting. “And what I’m saying doesn’t make it hurt less. It’s just true.”

Later that night we walk to a restaurant near campus and Joey sings “So What” by Pink, badly and really loud, to bug me just enough to cheer me up. They sling their arm around my shoulder as we walk in step down the hill, and I let my eyes move over the expanse of sky above us and campus below us. 

This could have been a final scene, the credits beginning to roll; the sun is even setting, a most terribly perfect cliché. In this moment, I wonder if my story is going to end before I have the right person by my side.

***

Maybe I spoke too soon that night.

It’s been just over a month since Maggie and I broke up, and I’m on my second date with Sweet Jacob. We were in a band together a few years back, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have the tiniest crush on him back then. He used to give me rides to practice and send me new bands to listen to; now, he scores my days and nights with playlists, like love letters from him to me. 

I always send him back romantic songs, to match how I’m feeling — newer things, like Beach Bunny; classics, like Orleans; and that “Bad Habit” song that’s been all over the Internet. Sometimes you just can’t do better than “Night is calling, and I am falling,” or “I wish I knew you wanted me.” 

A song can really tell a story, and his songs are telling me all those things and more. 

We’re at the bar catching up, since I haven’t seen him in about a week. The semester is almost over and there’s studying to do, plus an art show for the paintings from Joey’s and my class, so we’ve been scrambling to catch up on all our projects. 

Sweet Jacob is telling me he’d love to come and see my work when a gentle guitar fills the room; it’s a song he sent to me last night, coming over the speakers from the jukebox. He clinks my beer bottle with his. 

“Finally, my song is up,” he says with a grin. “Bachata is the most romantic genre. At least, in my opinion.” Sweet Jacob is becoming Bilingual Jacob, and it’s a shift I’m definitely happy with. 

“I love it, even though I don’t speak Spanish,” I respond, already picturing him teaching me. I Googled the lyrics before I even pressed play.

“Oh, yeah, I stopped taking Spanish after high school,” he shrugs. “I never really listen to the words, anyway.”

And I swear, our song ends at that precise moment. 

I guess someone’s spilled a drink over the outlet where the jukebox is plugged in; glass is shattered and the whole thing is sparking in some sort of ultrapertinent disaster, grabbing the attention of everyone, except me. I just can’t stop looking at Jacob. 

“You don’t listen to lyrics?” 

“I’m just not really a lyrics guy,” he says, redirecting his focus from the jukebox massacre. “There’s so much incredible instrumentation happening, I get lost in it. Especially with that last Beach Bunny album you sent me; I mean, the synth revival alone—”

“The lyrics are the best part!” I say, cutting him off completely and standing up. 

“Ava, it’s all good,” he says in a nonchalant tone. “We’re both hearing the same song, just in different ways.”

“But it’s like everything I’ve been wanting to tell you these past few weeks is just lost.” I’m defeated, nearly pouting, and he’s silent in his confusion. How fitting. 

“Look, I’m just tired,” I finally say. “Finals and all. I’m going to head home.”

The moment my feet hit the sidewalk I’m calling Joey. They pick up on the second ring.

“What happened?”

“He doesn’t listen to the lyrics of songs!”

I can literally hear their palm hitting their forehead through the phone. “Tell me everything.”

***

“Nice work, Ava. I hope you’ll consider taking my Intermediate Painting class next semester.”

My art professor is standing at my display with an impressed smile. He hands me a carnation from a bouquet in his hand; all the presenters at the art show get one.

“Thank you, so much,” I respond. “I’ll definitely try to make room in my schedule.” 

It’s a lie; I barely made it through the Intro class. I think he’s impressed that I finished my selection at all. 

Joey, of course, is going to pass with flying colors. Their collection is across the room from mine and it’s been drawing a crowd all night. They’ve been painting almost nonstop for the past week since I left Jacob at the bar. I’m heading over to congratulate them, stopping to see some of my classmates’ work along the way, when I see Maggie. 

She’s standing with Astrid, her roommate, at her display. I contemplate turning around, or at least distracting Joey so they can’t go over there and kill her, but Maggie sees me right then, so I give her a gentle smile and take a few steps her way. 

“Hey, Ava,” Astrid says when I get there. “Congrats. Your paintings are really nice.”

“Yours too,” I say, and I mean it. She touches Maggie’s arm and goes to join a group of people gathered around a painting insinuating that the moon is hollow. Artists.

Maggie and I start to speak at the same time, and laugh it off. 

“It’s really nice to see you,” she says. “And I hope you know that I’m sorry for everything that happened. Everything I did.” 

“I do know,” I reply sincerely. “And I should have treated you more fairly. It wasn’t just on you to make things work for us. Maybe we just show love in different ways.” 

She just looks at me, her expression one that I can’t quite decipher: surprised, I think, and amused. “Did Joey tell you that?”

I look over to them slowly, and their smile is wide as they talk with our professor. By the time I look back at Maggie, her expression has changed. Something knowing gleams in her eye.

“What, are you saying I couldn’t have had a self-aware realization on my own?” I ask her with a laugh, brushing off the last few seconds. 

“You could have, maybe,” she says with a grin. Then she looks at Joey, pointedly. “But maybe not.” 

We catch up for a few more minutes, and after a cordial goodbye, I continue my path to Joey. When I get to their collection, they’re gone, and one of their paintings has been taken off the wall. I can’t remember which one it was, but the title card is still there below the empty space it left behind: “You and Me.”

I’m bummed that I couldn’t talk to them, but leave it to Joey to sell a painting at a class function. I head back over to my section, ready to go, when I see it. 

It’s their painting, propped against one of my own. Two swirls of vibrant color, bright yellow and blue, meet against a night sky, creating a deep green in the center of it all. It’s a whole galaxy, dotted with stars and colors, impossibly immense yet so simple all at once. When I pick it up, a note falls off the back.

“If you want, let’s make something real together.”

As I read their words again, it's like I’ve woken up. Images and scenes flash before my mind in a real-life montage, but they aren’t hypotheticals. Instead, they’re moments we’ve had together. Walking home from campus late at night, straight down the middle of the street because there was nobody around; Joey rolling their eyes as they take a black coffee from me, wrapping their hands around the cup because it’s cold and they never wear a coat; their lips forming the lyrics of all their favorite songs, making even the ones I hate seem not so bad after all. 

I remember it all, and it feels different, but just the same, somehow. 

I look up from their painting and glance around the room until I find them. Their hair is spilling over their shoulders and I can see the tattoo on their collarbone that they hid from their parents for months, and they’re looking at me so clearly, and it’s so incredible and so exactly perfect. The person who was what I needed them to be, without me even knowing what that was. The person I had no expectations of, and who was right for me anyway. 

I was always a huge proponent of love at first sight; some people say it’s once-in-a-lifetime, but I used to feel like I’d had it with everyone I’d ever been with. For this reason, I tend to know instantly if I’m interested in someone, and for this reason, I’d never had one of those friends-to-lovers stories that everyone is so hell bent on. 

I don’t discount it. Love at first sight is beautiful, I’m sure. But now, with Joey, I’ve let go of the fantasies that constrained me for so long, that hurt the people in my past. I knew Joey for who they were first, and they knew me, exactly for who I was, and still they wanted me. We don’t like any of the same things, and they want me still. As for me, I didn’t know I could want something so much.

I guess sometimes, the key to loving someone for real is freedom from fantasy.

We meet in the center of the room and they grab my hand, leading me out of the venue and up a set of stairs. Music swells from behind us and we burst out the door to the rooftop, and in that moment we’re breaking through the screen, finally, and into the real.