This Time It's Real

by Ann Liang

He pauses. Stares at me. “Oh, look,” he says finally, his mouth curving into something too muted to qualify as a smile. “It’s my nonfan.”

Writing is simply a form of lying; I’ve always known this to be true. But to tell a good lie, a convincing lie, one that is both logically constructed and consistent and emotionally resonant—that takes time and effort.

And this, I think, is my ultimate fatal flaw. Missing people who don’t miss me back. Clinging on to strands of string that shouldn’t mean half as much as they do. It takes so little for me to love someone, yet so long for me to move on.

“Oh my god,” I repeat to myself, my voice kind of hoarse. Because even though I’ve found Caz Song attractive on a physical level for a while now, my biggest turn-on has always been competence. And as it appears, Caz is unbelievably competent at his job.

“Do you think it’d be too crass if I also mentioned how much I like his ass?”

When you care about someone, you want to be inconvenienced—you wouldn’t mind being inconvenienced by them every day for the rest of your life. That’s what love is. That’s all love really is.”

He only seems to relax when I scoot forward, bring my hand lower down to his arm, and tell him what I’ve wanted someone to say to me for as long as I can remember. What I’m still waiting for someone to say. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

“You must know that’s not what I care about.” Cold creeps into my veins. My teeth chatter. “What—what do you care about, then?” “You,” he says quietly. “I want you, Eliza.”

“I want this to be real.”