What It's Like in Words: A Novel

by Eliza Moss

I didn’t recognize myself, but I still felt seen.

I had never felt sexy before, but I believed him because, at this point, I was what he told me.

I was trading my body for the hope of his heart, and he was saying yes to a cup of tea that he didn’t really want because someone else was making it.

I wondered then if he actually loved me or whether he had just decided to.

An anger grew where my stomach met my chest. Did men sit around wondering if they were good enough or right enough men?

It’s strange, but I always assumed it would feel like a victory when he said those words to me, like his love was a trophy I could win by running faster than everyone else. But now that he has said them, they sound unnatural, and I’m angry that he would be so reckless with my heart that he would fight to change my feelings knowing that his own might have changed by morning. “You don’t love me,” I say.