Fluent in Me

"Why is there no rulebook for me?"

Maven has always suspected that life is just an elaborate game of charades, and unfortunately, she never got the rulebook.

She has spent most of her life watching others, trying to parse out the delicate nuances of everyday speech. The coded way people interact. The way “How are you?” is not actually a question but a social gesture, like a nod, like eye contact held for exactly the right number of seconds.

She is thirty now. She has a good job, a clean apartment, friendships she tends to like best in small, controlled doses. Still, her parents insist she is missing something. Or, more precisely, someone.

“You’re thirty,” her mother says over the phone, her voice carrying its usual edge of concern. “Have you thought about settling down? A husband, maybe?”

Maven stretches her legs across the couch, staring at the muted television. “No, I haven’t thought about a husband.”

Her mother sighs, as if this response has personally wounded her. “But you want companionship, don’t you?”

Maven does not know how to answer this question. She wants many things: autonomy, the ability to move through life without being pulled in directions she doesn’t want to go. She enjoys being alone. She enjoys not having to factor another person’s needs into her day. But to say this would be unacceptable, somehow. She knows this from experience. Instead, she says, “I don’t think marriage is the only way to be happy.”

Her mother pauses for a long time, as if considering the possibility that her daughter might be, by choice, abnormal. Then she says, “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

Maven does not argue. It seems futile to even try.

Later, she attends a dinner party at a coworker’s house. She has prepared for this, as she always does, reading articles about social etiquette, rehearsing casual small talk in the mirror. At the door, the host smiles, says, “Make yourself at home.”

Maven takes this as an instruction. She slips off her shoes, retrieves a blanket from the couch, and curls into the nearest armchair. The laughter that follows is polite, slightly nervous. The host smiles too widely, says something about how funny she is. Maven is aware she has done something wrong, though she is not sure what.

Over dinner, someone complains about being tired. Maven asks why. The table quiets for a moment before the person laughs, a little awkwardly, and says, “Just work stress.”

Maven nods, filing this away. If people mention something, they don’t always want to talk about it. The purpose of speech is not always communication. Sometimes it is performance. A ritual.

By the time dessert is served, she has noticed more of these moments. People compliment the food but leave it uneaten. They smile and nod and say, “We should do this again soon,” even though Maven suspects that many of them do not mean it.

At work the next day, she experiments. When her coworker Mark says, “Busy day, huh?” she does not give the expected response. Instead, she says, “Yes, but it’s been interesting. What about you?”

Mark blinks at her. “Actually, I’ve been overwhelmed. But, you know. That’s life.”

Maven tilts her head. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

For a second, Mark looks surprised. Then he smiles, a little softer this time. “You’re probably the first person to ask that and mean it.”

This feels like a small victory.

Later that week, she attends an art gallery opening. The paintings are large, abstract. People stand before them, murmuring vague sentiments about “movement” and “energy.”

Maven approaches a woman staring at a canvas covered in violent, erratic brushstrokes. “Do you think the artist was frustrated when they painted this?”

The woman turns to her, eyebrows raised. “That’s an interesting way to put it. Maybe. Or maybe it’s excitement.”

Maven considers this. “Do you think we’re supposed to see what they felt, or just what we feel?”

The woman smiles. “Most people just comment on the colors.”

Maven tucks this moment away, a small validation. Maybe she is not doing everything wrong.

In the weeks that follow, she continues her experiments. She does not follow the usual script. When someone invites her for coffee, she sets a date. When people make vague statements about their emotions, she asks if they want to talk about it. Some people find this unsettling. Others seem to appreciate it.

One evening, as she is leaving work, Mark catches up with her. “Hey,” he says. “Want to grab a drink?”

Maven nods. “When?”

Mark laughs, as if this is charming. “Now?”

At the bar, conversation feels easy. They talk about work, about expectations, about the exhaustion of social obligation. Mark admits that sometimes he fills silence with meaningless words, afraid of what will happen if he doesn’t.

“I think that’s most people,” Maven says.

“But not you.”

Maven shrugs. “Silence is another way of communicating. It’s only awkward if we decide it is.”

Mark looks at her for a long moment, then grins. “You’re weird, Maven.”

She considers this. “Is that a compliment?”

He nods. “Yeah. I think it is.”

The next morning, Maven wakes up to a text from Mark: Had fun last night. Let’s do it again? She stares at the screen for a long time before responding.

Sure. When?

This time, his reply is immediate. Saturday?

Maven agrees, and for the first time in a long time, she wonders if she has, unknowingly, been playing by the rules all along—just not the ones she thought mattered.

Later, when her mother calls again, she asks, “Have you met anyone yet?”

Maven thinks about this. She thinks about what the question really means, the subtext, the expectation.

“I’m happy,” she says instead. “Isn’t that enough?”

There is a silence. Then her mother sighs. “I just want you to be loved.”

Maven smiles, though her mother cannot see it. “I am. Just not in the way you expected.”

And this time around, she believes it.