Ophelia After All

by Racquel Marie

I guess in retrospect, his only wanting to make out in my garden (surprisingly, not a euphemism) and sit in his basement playing video games he’d never give me a turn at should’ve been red flags. But, as many of us have been before, I was fooled by a blond soccer player with chocolate-brown eyes.

Yeah, it would be nice to not attend another—and my final—high school dance dateless, but a pity date isn’t a much better alternative.

Occasionally, as my mind wanders during class or while gardening, someone stands out against the collection of boys I’ve dared to want. Even considering Sammie and Lucas, this face has taken the strongest presence, especially as prom approaches. But she shouldn’t—doesn’t—belong there.

I watched in envy as Linds and Agatha comfortably shared a blanket on the other side of the couch. I wasn’t envious of them cuddling together; I was envious that they could do it without feeling weird like I always did.

Still, I’ve yet to kick the daily habit of checking for a new cheesy postcard promising me an enriching future for the low cost of never-ending student debt.

When you’ve had the same friends for this many years, you forget how much work goes into your first one-on-one time with a new one.

I hate feeling like there’s some monolithic Latine culture, because there isn’t and it’s reductive of me to pretend otherwise, but I foolishly wish I did know what Talia meant, given that I’ve hardly been around enough Latine families to know.

“Math is just so universal. It’s seen as useless and annoying by a lot of people, but it’s so necessary for everyday life. And people hate taking math classes but love when they do a math problem right. Plus, there’s always one correct answer even if there are multiple ways to get there. I like that complicated simplicity. It’s always been a breeze for me.

Basically, I’m seventeen with no license and the inability to cook anything more advanced than a quesadilla, so it’s a nice change of pace to know that without me, they would die. So I spend three long hours every Sunday feeling needed by something beautiful. I don’t think that’s so strange.

First-period homeroom used to be lax when we were all A students who did our homework the night before. But senioritis has everyone procrastinating and rushing to finish shit before next period. I don’t even want to think about this carrying over to college.

My parents love me; I know this for sure. But I also know they love weddings and grandchildren and the expectations they have for me. They love the daughter they know, but what if I stop being that daughter?

I don’t have the energy to play the whole Yes, My Mom And I Have Different Skin And Hair Colors, What A Concept game today. Not to mention explaining the vast array of Latine skin tones and hair types in the world.

Sometimes I wonder if I missed out on learning these girl codes when I was younger,

“But sometimes, when you’ve known someone for years and they build up this image of you, it’s hard to talk about things that mess with that image. It feels like you’d be breaking some bond of trust between you and that person by being different than you were before. I don’t just mean subtle, slow changes. I mean, like, the big things that they never saw coming.”

I want to ask what it felt like to realize a girl’s lips could be just as nice as a boy’s, that for some people maybe they all taste the same when your eyes are closed, and to know if it was scary or exciting or felt like scratching a bug bite after everyone told you not to. Mostly, I want to ask if it was worth it. If that small moment between her and a girl who she shared beds and rings and nightmares with was worth losing the version of herself that her family had in mind from the time she was young, to let who she really was breathe for a minute or two. But all I do is tighten my short ponytail and smile like the periods behind everything I ever thought about myself aren’t slowly being replaced by question marks.

But I never want to be the girl who calls other girls sluts just because I can’t get a boy to like me back. I don’t want to contribute to a society that makes my friend feel bad for wanting to explore her options just because she has so many.

What happens when you tell the girls who trust and love you that you realized you sometimes look at them the way they expect boys to? Does everything—every borrowed lipstick and shared dressing room and innocent cheek kiss—become suspect, corrupted by some illusion of straightness?

He shrugs, like he isn’t breaking my heart with every passing second.

“Stop using word-specificity arguments on me. It’s a flimsy trick and a waste of linguistic studies.”

“He wrongly accused you of being gay using hateful words, no?” I’m frozen in shock, in anger. Accused? Wrongly?

It’s not that we like the pain of not having something; it’s more that the act of wanting gives us more satisfaction than the actual thing ever will. Less masochistic and more like we’re all Goldilocks, getting off on constantly searching for the perfect whatever. But we’ll never find it.”

It makes me want to fix this, guarantee her the prom she deserves, even without her family’s unanimous support and first love by her side.

I’m just so used to apologizing for my heart.

How many times did I let a joke or comment go unsaid because I feared he wouldn’t like it? Wouldn’t get it?

But I have to forget about those expectations. I have to think about what I want now. Whatever that is.

“I hid how I felt about Tori for so long. But when she kissed me, I knew it wasn’t wrong. I knew I wasn’t wrong. That was worth every ounce of my family’s disappointment, because from then on I knew I didn’t deserve it.”

But I do wonder at the back of my mind, how it is that the rest of the world, the one just beside me, could keep trudging along while I sit here fracturing.

“If they knew I had a boyfriend, they’d think I’m ‘cured.’ Like I’m straight now.”

I gave and took away my affections so often, I think my heart has always half belonged to the world and half belonged to me. But I would’ve given her the whole thing, had she asked me to.

The few old friends I told about being asexual thought I just hadn’t met the right person yet or that I had a bad experience that made me sex-repulsed.” He sighs. “It’s hard to explain to people sometimes, exhausting more than anything else. So I keep it to myself, or at least I planned to.”

You don’t have to pick one gender if your heart feels something for more than one. And you definitely don’t owe it to anyone, least of all yourself, to hide the way you feel just because it would change things.”

Because maybe I don’t know myself with the same certainty I’ve always claimed.

He gets to take her home to his parents without preparing a speech beforehand. He gets to love her without confusion or doubt.

Time flies when you’re having an identity crisis.

Waiting for someone to love you back seems beautiful in a miserable way when you’re young. No offense.” She smiles. “But a life spent waiting is not a life spent loving. It’s a life spent wasting away on the promise of something you’re not guaranteed.”

You sat around making googly eyes across a lunch table and threw food at her and played with her hair, but you weren’t brave enough to be honest for once in your life about how you really felt, so don’t you dare come to me expecting pity over this!”

I learned the hard way that I wasn’t and never would be enough for the people I fell for, but at least I had the guts to admit it.

The bags under my eyes will just have to be my accessory for the day.

Just because we’re a community doesn’t mean everyone’s experiences are the same, especially when race and ethnicity come into play.

But I know the power of language. If Mom’s profession and Dad’s bilingualism have taught me anything, it’s that words mean something.

Half of my blood and heritage is one thing, half is another, and more often than not, it leaves me feeling less like a whole person with a complete, unique makeup, and more like two halves of a girl who is never enough.

I know kissing and liking Talia shouldn’t change who I am to them, or to myself, but it does. And maybe they’d say ‘Oh, this doesn’t change anything!’ or ‘You’re still the same Ophelia we know and love!’ but it does, and I’m not the same. And they can’t possibly understand that. It’s not just that I’m scared they’ll hate me for this; I’m scared they won’t even see it.”

Turns out identity crises don’t actually excuse you from your educational obligations.

There isn’t a massive weight lifted off my chest. Because I realize this is something I’ll have to do for the rest of my life, correct the assumption my heart belongs to boys, and boys alone. I’ll never stop coming out.

He may be shallower than the roots of my roses,

It was feeling like I’d kidded myself into thinking I had a chance. Into thinking that someone met me and saw something worth loving, for once. I deserve, one day, to find that again. And to know, no matter their gender, that I’m not settling. Even if that means being alone and unsure for longer than I thought I’d be.

But don’t apologize for not coming out before you were ready.”

I may doubt the truths of the world, but never again will I doubt whether or not the person that I am, or may be, is loved or worthy of love. I know myself, and I don’t. Both can be true.

The little voices, the ones that always made me imagine the worst of my family and friends, have returned to taunt me, to tell me I made a mistake by being honest. They tell me I’m a fraud and a liar and never should’ve opened my mouth.

Maybe it’s not about whether my crushes work out in the end. Maybe it never was. Maybe it’s about letting myself have them. Letting myself feel love and lust and heartbreak, my own version of magnificent misery in the process, and never changing my heart for anyone’s benefit but my own. I don’t mind being the lover, the one who waits, but I won’t hesitate to love myself with all I’ve got in the meantime.