“I hate that class more than anything,” I grumbled, shifting the grueling weight of my backpack between my shoulders.
“He doesn’t even try to be nice!” commiserated my friend.
“Honestly, he’s sadistic or something.”
It was 3 PM and the hallway had become alive. I’d just been released from a class that always soured my mood, an elaborate scheme of psychological torture I’d only stayed in because someone said it would look nice on my transcript. I couldn’t wait to get home and throw myself on the plush velvet sofa in my living room. For now, I was stuck behind a tall student that crawled along like a dilapidated truck, complete with foul exhaust.
Through the crowd, I caught a flash of an Oscar Wilde button on someone’s backpack. Oscar Wilde was my favorite writer, but I’d never encountered anyone else that enjoyed his work, except through my recommendation. When I saw the button I jumped, shoving my way through the exodus in a desperate attempt to reach its owner.
When I reached them I could make out all of the buttons that adorned their threadbare bag. Somehow, each pertained to things I loved. Their long black hair bounced a little when they walked, and one of their beat-up doc martens was untied. Though I’d spent the summer working at a labyrinthine mall where I saw all sides of humanity, I wasn’t sure I’d ever been so immediately drawn to another person.
“Hi!” I shouted.
The stranger turned around. “Hello?” I saw them look me up and down.
“Hi, I’m sorry if this is weird, but I noticed you have an Oscar Wilde button, and I absolutely adore him.” I sounded horrifically silly.
To my relief, they smiled. “I love Oscar Wilde too!”
“Yeah, I mean, I would expect so. I like your other buttons too. You seem really cool.”
They laughed. “So do you.”
“Shit, I forgot to introduce myself.” I told them my name.
They told me theirs.
My eyes widened. That year, I had decided to become the head of hair and makeup in our fall musical. I’d been tasked with familiarizing myself with what the main cast looked like, but there were one or two people I’d not been able to picture. The stranger was apparently one of them.
“Wait, from the musical?”
They nodded.
“Wait, that’s perfect! I was supposed to find out who you were anyway. I’m the head of hair and makeup. Can I make you wear drag makeup?”
“Um, absolutely.”
After this, we exchanged instagram accounts and spent hours messaging each other. We made a habit of going home together after rehearsals, and within a few weeks I was spending all the free time I had with them.
During tech week, we realized that his costume wasn't very mobile, meaning that he had to spend the entirety of the show standing in the doorway that led backstage from the music hallway. I felt awful watching him stand on his own, separated from the rest of the cast and relatively immobilized. In retrospect, it seems natural that I took it upon myself to keep him company. We’d spend the duration of the show inventing silly games and exchanging thoughts on literature and music. Neither of us would have admitted it, but we were immensely grateful for the excuse to be together.
The night after we opened, we both slept over at another friend’s house. During the late-night soul bearing that pervades sleepovers, he mentioned that he’d never been kissed, which surprised me a little. Maybe it was adrenaline, but I asked him if he wanted to try it.
“It’d just be platonic, you know, so you could have the experience,” I clarified. “I mean, it doesn’t have to mean anything. We’d just put our mouths together. People in Europe kiss as a greeting all the time.”
He agreed, so I closed my eyes and ran my fingers through his hair. Our lips met. I prayed he couldn’t feel my heart racing, or the way I held the kiss for a little longer than I should’ve, or the tiny shaking in my fingertips. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him when the kiss was over. Instead, I opted to remark rather uselessly that he knew what it was like to kiss now. We were dating in a week.
We’ve been together for over a year now, a feat no one thought we could achieve. I wasn’t sure of it either, but I suppose if you want something badly enough there’s little anyone can do to prevent it.
People like to say that you need to love yourself before you can love someone else. This was not the case for me. Before we got together, I held myself in firm contempt. I am not so naive as to give our relationship full credit for the change in how I regard myself, but it certainly forced me to consider things in ways I’d never imagined.
He often wrote poems about me in the first few months of our relationship. I was likened to gods, universes, myths, and sunlight. To me, this was shocking. I’d never thought I could be seen as something so wonderful, but the incessant affection moved me to contemplate whether I could be worthy of love. At the very least, he seemed to think so.
His magnum opus, as far as I was concerned, was the poem he’d written me for Valentine’s Day. He’d spent days drafting the thing, and days more writing it out on paper he’d aged with coffee and burned around the edges.
My eyes were a little wet after I finished reading it. “How can you think so highly of me?”
“How can you think so little of yourself? You’re brilliant.” He said this as if it was obvious.
Gradually, I began to understand that this was not just flattery. I had become lovable. The past few years of my life had been spent in fearful compensation for my belief that I wasn’t, so that realization upended a lot of things that had become second nature. As time passed, I began to feel more and more certain that I was cherished. We’re still together now, and neither of us have regretted getting to know each other.
While colloquial wisdom would say that I should never have entered a relationship, taking part in this one has been among the best decisions I’ve ever made. Although it is true that self-hatred can be turned against a romantic partner, the inverse can also occur. Relationships can teach us that the worst parts of ourselves, the parts we never expected anyone to love, can be beautiful. Two years ago, I would have found such a thought absurd. I’m grateful that I don’t anymore.
Tonight, he and I are going to watch a movie together. He hasn’t seen it before, but it’s one of my favorites, and I’m really hoping he enjoys it. As we watch it, I’ll probably end up in his arms. There will be a blanket spread across our laps, and I will reach for his hand, criss-crossing our fingers and pressing them to my face. I will be certain that I am loved.