Starfish

by Akemi Dawn Bowman

Emery always says that being alone isn’t the same thing as being lonely, but sometimes it feels like they’re exactly the same thing.

But I hate confrontation. And disappointing people. And drawing attention to myself.

Someday I’d like to feel comfortable enough around people to actually say the things I want to say. I’d like to look around and not feel like I’m the outsider. I’d like a life that just feels calm.

but I am paralyzed with the fear of making Adam uncomfortable. Confrontation of any kind is my nightmare.

I’m too scared. Everything is shaking and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I’m too scared to move. I’m scared of the embarrassment. I’m scared of what acknowledging any of this says about me. I feel completely out of control, and my body feels like it’s made out of lead. I don’t know how to change this. I’ve felt like this before.

“I don’t want someone to like me because I’m ‘exotic,’ ” I say. “It makes it sound like I’m an acquired taste, or something someone tries once in a while.” “It doesn’t mean anything bad. It just means you’re different,” she says. “Exactly,” I say. She narrows her hazel eyes. “Are you trying to tell me you’d rather be mashed potatoes than crème brûlée?” “I’m saying I don’t want to be the thing that people like once in a while, or because they think it’s unique or exotic.” I don’t want to be kissed by someone who is ashamed about it later because I don’t have blue eyes and blond hair and I might disappoint their parents. I hesitate, pinching my fingers against my leg nervously. I know it’s Emery—the last person in the world who would probably be mad at me—but I still worry I might’ve upset her. Confidence is a foreign concept to me, and saying how I feel, out loud, is horribly unnatural. It sounds like I’m yelling my feelings. I don’t want her to think I’m yelling at her, and even if it is completely illogical, I don’t want her to be angry with me.

I almost forget how desperately I need Prism and how badly I want to feel like I’m part of a world that wants me back.

We nurtured ourselves, by ourselves, and protected our hearts even from one another. We were never going to be close. We were never going to really love one another. We never stood a chance.

And hiding the thing he loves most under a table works for him because he’s never cared about getting anyone’s approval. He doesn’t need to share his comics; he doesn’t need anyone to be interested in him. He has more raw confidence than I ever will.

“You care too much about what other people think. I mean, so what if you fail? So what if it takes a few tries? You’re following your dreams. It shouldn’t matter to anyone else how long it takes you or what your journey is like—it should just matter to you.”

It’s strange—hope can make you forget so much, so quickly. That’s why hoping is so dangerous.

I think one of the reasons we always got along so well was because we both saw the world as a series of moments that needed to be captured—we just captured them in different ways.

You don’t have to feel guilty just because you didn’t do what I would have liked.” I feel like he’s telling me it’s okay to disagree with him. It’s a completely foreign concept to me.

if I keep talking about the things that make me happy I can trick myself into forgetting about the things that don’t.

Normal people don’t need to prepare for social interactions. Normal people don’t panic at the sight of strangers. Normal people don’t want to cry because the plan they’ve processed in their head is suddenly not the plan that’s going to happen.

I shrug because what else am I supposed to do? Of course it doesn’t make sense—feeling this way doesn’t make sense. But if I could fix myself and turn off the anxiety long enough to feel normal, I would have a long time ago.

Hearts aren’t meant to be broken an infinite amount of times.

I’m vulnerable and unarmed, but I’ve told her the truth, and somehow that gives me a sense of strength I’ve never felt before. Maybe I don’t need weapons or armor if I have the truth.

I know he’s right. Of course he’s right. But that doesn’t mean I can just reprogram the way my emotions work. Fixing me isn’t like fixing a loose screw or a little bit of rust. I’m like a giant mess of problems, all linked together and tracing back to my childhood. Back to when things got so complicated.

“What are you so afraid of?” People. Uncle Max. The truth. Never really being loved. Disappointing everyone. Disappointing myself. Feeling guilty for the rest of my life.

“We all start at the same place, but you’re completely in charge of where you finish,”

“We all have to dream our own dreams. We only get one life to live—live it for yourself, not anyone else. Because when you’re on your deathbed, you’re going to be wishing you had. When everyone else is on theirs, I guarantee they aren’t going to be thinking about your life.”

Maybe what you thought was your best wasn’t really your best. Maybe it was just the work you were least hard on yourself about.”

He doesn’t see how my skin is crumbling off me like it’s old and dead, revealing something glowing and wonderful underneath.

Because sometimes when the world doesn’t make sense, it just feels better if there’s someone around to make it a little less lonely.

It feels like a big step, doing things on my own. It’s scary, but it makes me feel stronger, somehow. I feel like my feet are heavier than I realized and if the wind blows I won’t be knocked over. Except it’s not my feet that feel strong; it’s my heart.

“If I did that, I’d be dependent on you. I need to figure out where my life is going. I need something that is mine. Otherwise . . .” Otherwise I’ll never fully break away from what my life has always been. I’ll always be attached to it, like a branch that’s growing farther and farther away but it doesn’t matter because its roots are a part of the tree’s roots. I need to be my own tree.

I feel trapped beneath all the things that make me think less of myself. If my life were a video game, I would have hit the reset button a long time ago.

But some people are just starfish—they need everyone to fill the roles that they assign. They need the world to sit around them, pointing at them and validating their feelings. But you can’t spend your life trying to make a starfish happy, because no matter what you do, it will never be enough. They will always find a way to make themselves the center of attention, because it’s the only way they know how to live.”

“Don’t live to please the starfish, especially when their happiness is at the expense of yours. That is not love. That is narcissism. There’s an entire ocean out there, Kiko—swim in it.”

“Artwork isn’t finished just because you’ve colored up to every corner on the page. Artwork is finished when you get to the end of your sentence.”

It’s an ugly thing to do. I’d rather have an ugly face than an ugly heart.

And I decide, right there and then, that I don’t care if I’m not someone’s idea of pretty. I don’t care if my name might disappoint someone, or if my face might disappoint someone’s parents. Because that says so much more about them than it does about me.

And they’re so beautiful. Like, Rei beautiful. They know how to do their hair and makeup and dress themselves because they’ve probably been taught by parents who understand they shouldn’t just copy whatever the white celebrities and models are doing. Because they have different faces and body types and colors. It’s like painting—you don’t just use any color you feel like; you pick the color that fits the subject the best. I can’t believe it’s taken me so long to learn the lesson I’ve needed since childhood. I don’t have to be white to be beautiful, just like I don’t have to be Asian to be beautiful. Because beauty doesn’t come in one mold.

“I’m not looking at them,” Jamie says softly. “I’m looking at you.”

I know not every family is the same. We all have different personalities and names. Different colors in a box of crayons. Different shades in a box of graphites. And maybe love looks different to different people, the same way beauty looks different. But the kind of love I need isn’t the kind I have. I guess I’m still trying to find a way to be okay with that.

Beauty is unique and special and it looks different for every person in the world.

We fit together not because we need each other, but because we choose each other.