I Am Not Jessica Chen

by Ann Liang

“You have no idea,” he goes on in a furious whisper. “You truly have no idea what you mean to me. You can’t see yourself from anyone else’s perspective; you don’t even really know yourself. You’re so stuck in your own skewed version of your life, and it’s not . . . it’s not real. You’re incredible.” I actually laugh. Slap the dashboard in my hysteria. “Oh my god, okay, seriously. We’re not doing this—” “No. Let me continue,” he says, his eyes flashing. “You are incredible. You see the world like an artist. You notice every color in the sky, you stop and marvel at the sight of a sparrow flying by or a ripple in the lake or an autumn leaf in the sun. You’re always the first person to sense if someone else is having a bad day, and you can’t watch a sad movie without crying, and you always skip the ending if you know it’s going to be tragic, so you can make up something better in your head. Once, you teared up after your elderly neighbor asked you to read the expiration date on a loaf of bread for him because his eyesight was fading. You also tear up every time you watch that cereal commercial about the border collie who runs away from home. When we found a dead bird in the forest, you insisted on building a grave for it out of twigs and wildflowers. You hate small spaces, but you still came to sit with me in the attic for hours when my father was mad at me. You’re sarcastic, but never in a mean way. You’re dramatic, and you can make anything sound like poetry. You’re sensitiv...

But I don’t remember this part at all. That scares me. It makes me wonder what else I’ve forgotten, what else has slipped through the cracks. If I’m forgetting myself too, like everyone else has. Except him.

“It does matter. You matter,”

“No,” I say. “No. Don’t do that. You’re not playing fair.” “I’m not playing fair? You’re literally defying the known laws of physics.” “You know it’s my weakness,” I breathe out. “You know you’re my weakness.” “Then come back to me,” he says, softer, his voice pained now, pleading. I’m unprepared for how quickly it unravels me. I had been braced for a war; I had entered the car with my armor on, my weapons sharpened. I can do that. I can fight him if I have to. But not this. Not him with his guard lowered, his sword dropped to his feet, his palms open, empty, searching. And he senses it. Always so observant. He’s always known me so well.

Just say the word, Jenna, and I’ll do anything.

I don’t know how to do anything except crave what I don’t have. I don’t know how to be content, to sit with myself and my life and let it wash over me like daylight.

I’ve never known how to paint from a place of happiness.

That’s the problem. I’m not sad because I don’t love life enough, but because I love life too much. I always want more of it.

We’re so invested in each other’s successes and failures, so insecure that we need to repeatedly compile and update all the evidence we can find that we’re doing well in comparison to everyone else. But I’m suddenly not so sure I want to keep playing.

To them, violence doesn’t look like blood and broken bones. Violence looks like the disruption of power.

I miss him, even if every moment we shared together was a reminder that he wasn’t mine. Chasing after him across the oval, his shadow stretching out behind him, never quite close enough to touch. Standing next to him under a flickering streetlight, the moon lopsided and silver through the foliage, spilling over his midnight hair. When he was around, the world seemed safe, the kind of place that was worth everything, all the little disappointments and injustices and chips at my pride.

I miss it all. I miss my life, because even when I felt like I had nothing, I had everything. I just didn’t know it at the time. You never do, until it’s in hindsight.

The sharp, heart-pounding realization of what could have happened, of how fragile and arbitrary life itself is, of how one moment, one mistake, could have the power to change everything.

It’s bizarre, how everything that had once seemed so ordinary to me now feels uniquely, unbearably precious, and everything that had once seemed so vital now feels so trivial.

“Jenna, you’re all I’ve ever wanted,” he says, quiet. Perfect. “It’s always been you. It can only be you.”

It’s my life, I think with amazement, and it’s beautiful, and I can paint it any color I want to. Right now it’s drenched in the brightest shade of gold. I have the brush in my hands, and the canvas is mine. It’s all mine.

I thought sacrifice was a good thing, that it proved you were determined, dedicated. But there are some things I have to keep for myself. Like, my integrity. Like my dignity. My sanity.”