This Could Be Us

CONTENT WARNING: graphic mentions of domestic violence, and cheating

The museum is extravagantly beautiful. My mouth gapes open at the stark white walls and marble flooring - it makes the pieces of beautiful art stand out perfectly. The high ceiling is holding modern-looking chandeliers that illuminate each corner with an impeccable glow. In the part of the building where I stand, canvases of abstract art in bursts of all colors are hung on the wall, each of them in a specific distance from one another. They’d only let people inside in batches, and my batch is luckily fewer than the usual - the small crowd makes it even more perfect to admire art in such a space.

My eyes scan over the intricate details of one painting - it’s a portrait of a girl whose hair is swept by the wind, eyes closed, lips painted in a soft smile, and what makes it even more beautiful is the way her skin is painted in mixed hues of yellows and blues and pinks and every color in between.

Somewhere, in a corner of my brain, I wish someone would paint me like this.

“What do you think the painter was thinking of, doing this piece?”

I turn to the unfamiliar voice. The dalliance comes as a surprise since I never noticed a presence looming over my shoulder for the past five minutes of admiring the piece.

The girl who’s spoken is staring at the painting too, and her rapt gaze is a familiar one - it’s how I looked at it too. But I couldn’t answer her question right away, despite a few words sitting at the tip of my tongue. I’m too distracted with the perfect slope of her nose, the perfect cupid’s bow, the curled corners of her lips, and her dark, shining orbs.

She’s beautiful. Her long hair stops above her waist in subtle waves, and her shoulders squaring in achieved confidence. Her outfit is the opposite of my own white semi-formal slit dress that stops at my knees, a beige coat over it, and a matching pair of beige three-inch open-toe heels. She stands straight, now in front of me, wearing a yellow summer dress in gumamela print, matched with a pair of casual white sneakers.

There’s a slight tug in one of my heartstrings.

My daze is broken when she moves to stand next to me - her eyes never leave the painting, while my own pair don’t leave hers. Her wonder is so evident, and it casts a spell on me. Like a fog clouding my sight, then suddenly it’s just her and me in a stark white-walled room in front of a majestic painting.

Finally, the lack of an answer makes her turn her gaze to me - and to have those eyes on me makes my heart shrivel and do a triple axel.

“I -” I stutter, “I think they were reminiscent of something. Maybe of this girl. Who knows, right?”

And, god, her giggle sounds like bells chiming on a perfect summer day, like those glittery heartshaker keyrings I find in small craft shops, like the bubbles I used to blow during my childhood walks at the nearest park from home.

“Yeah, who knows?” Then she fiddles with her own fingers, “She could be their memory, but she could be a self-portrait too. Or she could be the person the artist is trying to be.”

“That’s a lot, for a painting,” I blurt out. Embarrassedly, I rub the skin on my nape as she smiles. It’s a beautiful smile.

She gestures at her eyes, “People have two eyes - we’re bound to see things in two or more perspectives.”

Maybe I was right. Maybe the girl is surely full of wonder. Her words are deep, and even though I didn’t need to ponder on it, I still find them regal. It suits the painting, and by this I begin to think she’s right. And when people are right with their first sentence, you trust them to say more right things.

So I listen to her when she says, “The artist also could have been just inspired by a random girl hanging out in a cafe fronting their apartment balcony. Who knows, right?”

The way she mimics my tone at the last sentence makes me smile in amusement. “I guess that could be it. Either way, I think this is one of the most beautiful pieces I’ve ever seen here. It’s just so...captivating.”

“Well,” she chuckles and shyly bows her head, “thank you.”

My surprise evidently shows when I fully turn to face her, eyes wide, and jaw open in utter shock. There’s a sanguine color across her freckled cheeks, and her lower lip is pulled in between her teeth. And while she looks absolutely adorable, with hands clasped behind her, I couldn’t remove my surprise. The beating in my chest grows louder and louder, my hands turn clammy inside my coat pockets. It’s such an amusing reality, this one right now.

“You did this?”

“Yes,” she tucks a fallen strand of her hair back to behind her earlobe. I wish I could have done that. “I apologize if it was weird to suddenly approach you like that - “

“No.” I cut her off, “No, it’s okay. I actually feel honored right now.” And it’s true - I do feel honored. When I say I find the painting beautiful in every synonym it has, I really do mean it. And to just casually chat about it with a stranger who happens to be the very creator of the art is just -

“Wow,” I breathe out.

She smiles so brightly that it turns her eyes into adorable little crescents, “Really, thank you.”

“You’re welcome...” I reply while in the cusp between a shock shock and a calmer shock. Then I peek at the small nameplate beside the painting, “...Jessica.”

“Just Jess, please.”

I laugh, although half of it is out of nervousness - a sensation I don’t even know why I feel at the moment, “Okay. You’re welcome, Jess. I think I’m going to remember you forever. Wow.”

Jess - the name feels right in my head - nods, her smile never leaving her face. Is it too much to say that I’ve found my favorite part of her now?

“How about you?” Jess says, and I pass her a questioning look so she adds, “Your name?”

“Oh,” with a flustered face, I hold out a hand, “I’m Ellie.”

The heat from my face crawls down to my neck when our palms touch. She slides it into mine so easily, like it was an innate thing to do, like she’s practiced it all this time. It makes my skin burn, even more so when her fingers clasp around my knuckles secure tight. Oh god, my own voice whines in my head, your shaky fingers are so embarrassing!

It’s a fifty-fifty feeling between relief and regret when she lets go of our shared hold. But I guess Jess just can’t give me a break from the turbulence in my chest because she speaks, ruddy cheeks and shy eyes and all.

“Would you like to have coffee with me? To talk about ourselves, this time?”

And I am stunned. I know for sure she means to ask me out on a date and get to know each other. There’s elatedness in my chest - so much of it that I could just blurt out an enthusiastic ‘yes!’ in her face. But I’m a person who needs a little bit of process time.

If I say yes, then we’ll surely go on that date. Maybe tomorrow, or maybe on the weekend. Either way, during the waiting time in between, Jess and I could spend an entire night or two talking through our phones in pre-date conversations. I will be calling my best friend to gush about it as soon as I get home tonight.

And on d-day, I will be wearing one of my best dresses, maybe one that is less formal than what I am currently wearing. Jess could wear another one of her pretty summer dresses with her similar wavy hair and glitter on her eyelashes, with the same beautiful smile and wonderful eyes. Then we’d chat and eat and maybe hold hands as we say goodbye, a promise of a second date slipping out of each other’s tongues. Then we’ll go on a third, then on a fourth, then share a kiss on the fifth.

Although it could also be that the first date turns out to be a fail, and we remain as friends.

But if we kiss on the fifth date, one of us will be asking the other to be officially together on the seventh. Or the eight. Or the ninth. Or the tenth. I could be the one to ask. Jess could be the one to ask too - she’d look bashful, eyes hesitant beneath those long lashes of hers, and she’d be shyly uttering out the words. I would reply a yes with a small kiss to her cheek.

We’ll be together happily. I would be in every exhibition Jess’ art will have, and I would stand by her side the whole time. We’d go on summer road trips because I can drive, and because Jess could be a girl of the summer. We’d be watching movies, alternating in spending the night between our residences, sharing bowls of butter popcorn and cola.

Then we could go years together as a couple, moving in to a rented apartment in the heart of the city, get a cat or fill a tank of fishes as a pet. Or maybe the pet part could be in another few years time after some planning. We would be each other’s tranquil before and after a storm, we would be each other’s foundation. Jess would be the three thousand times of my I love you’s, and I’ll be hers in the same way. I could be Jess’ biggest trouble and at the same time her biggest relief, and she could be mine in the same way. We could go on a long walk together, of time and of literal strolls in the park, with a pet or none. Either way, we’ll be holding each other’s hand just as tightly as our first handshake.

We’ll be happy despite the humps and bumps. The sky is blue. The ground is under our feet. One is a number. The stars are aligned for us.

Forever could be on our side, but forever could also choose not to.

Maybe in the long walk, Jess and I could run into problems - problems that become worse and worse as they come, problems that would trip the both of us with no hand to help us rise, problems that would make us fall like a weak house of cards.

Our hours at home could be disrupted by the routines we’ve independently set to ourselves - Jess could drown herself in her art, her hands covered in paint rather than the warmth of my own. I could drown myself in my office work, writing article over article, document over document, spending more time on my desk rather than on the bed beside her.

Or even just as trivial as a small misunderstanding could lead to a full blown argument, and instead of love, we’ll share hate and scorching words that burn us both. Jess could say I’m too selfish, I could tell her she was too much of a romanticist. Then we sleep with our backs on each other, or I could sleep staring at her back because I miss her but am too prideful to admit my part of the fault.

Then an unresolved tension welcomes more arguments, and hurtful words become paired with actions.

Jess could throw me sharp words and shards of glass. Jess could hold me too tight enough to leave purple bruises of detestment rather than love. Jess could shut the front door with a loud bang. Jess’ voice could turn to scathing rather than gentle. I could do all these to her instead. We could spend our days crying and yelling at each other. We could spend our nights separately - even in different beds, we’ll be clutching our blankets oh so tightly, using it as a napkin to wipe sad and angry tears away.

There could be no dramatic moment of realization when we decide to quash our promises of forever and just accept that we were bound to just meet, not stay.

There could also be a dramatic moment of realization where I find out Jess is holding another person’s heart, or Jess finds out I’ve been kissing another person with the same mouth I kiss her with. Either way, one of us will have to pack her bags and leave. Then we don’t ever meet again.

The universe is too big to be so sure. One small yes could lead to one of these thoughts - a butterfly effect. One nod could affect a life or two inherently. Although a yes does sound like a decadence. A yes will be life-changing in many ways, big or small. A yes will be bad or good. But isn’t that the thrill of life - knowing what could happen but not really knowing for sure? How do I know if I don’t give this one word of affirmation? How do you take a journey if you don’t take a step forward?

So I nod, and breathlessly utters my answer, “Yes. I would love to.”

The grin Jess gives is worth it. At least for now. But even ‘for now’ sounds promising to me, so I smile back, letting myself indulge in the warmth permeating my heart, letting myself take a step to a journey.

“We could go to your favorite cafe, Ellie. I would love to spend time with you there.”

More and more within a second span, I start to believe that maybe - just maybe - the stars could be truly aligned for us.