We are the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves. Minghao can’t quite tell the difference between the fiction and the truth, though perhaps the truth is the fiction. There is only the coherence you imagine.
“I’m in love with you,” he says. “I don’t expect you to feel the same.”
He imagined this, in precise detail, right down to the shock widening Mingyu’s eyes, the tilt of his head as he tries to think of something to say. Mingyu believes himself to be the kind of person who cares about his friends, so he wets his lips with his tongue and his eyes dart around the room in search of a script he can read. Minghao already knows the options laid out before them, each as solid and inevitable as the heavy thud of his back as he leans against the wall.
What does it mean to be in love, really? Is Minghao crying now because he feels it, or because this is how he’s supposed to feel? Is he in love or is he in love with the story, the taunt of heartbreak, the hollow ache where hope had once languished in his chest? Being in love is really just hope, a projected future, scripting another person into the story you’d like to tell. Scripting yourself as someone he’d fall in love with.
The fiction hurts more than the truth. The truth is that he’s sitting on Mingyu’s couch in the semi-dark and waiting for an answer. The fiction is the one happy future he imagined, where the scene ends with a kiss instead of silence. The truth is that nothing really makes sense, frayed plot lines ending in empty air.
“I’m sorry,” Minghao says into the darkness. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, I’m sorry,” says Mingyu, but then he says nothing else. Into his silence one might read the potential for a plot twist. The truth is, he’s still looking for something to say to make this all mean something.
“I’m sorry,” Minghao repeats, tasting the words, following the path to the end. “I didn’t mean to ruin everything.”
But he did. Deep down he wanted to destroy the bud of hope before it came into bloom. Before he let himself live in a fairy tale. Who are you, if you are not telling yourself a story about yourself? A jumbled mess of experiences and memories. A question, unasked. An impression, a thumb against a bruise.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” says Mingyu.
Minghao laughs. “I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. “That I made you play this part.”
coherence – Minghao/Mingyu – undefined
“I’m in love with you,” he says. “I don’t expect you to feel the same.”
He imagined this, in precise detail, right down to the shock widening Mingyu’s eyes, the tilt of his head as he tries to think of something to say. Mingyu believes himself to be the kind of person who cares about his friends, so he wets his lips with his tongue and his eyes dart around the room in search of a script he can read. Minghao already knows the options laid out before them, each as solid and inevitable as the heavy thud of his back as he leans against the wall.
What does it mean to be in love, really? Is Minghao crying now because he feels it, or because this is how he’s supposed to feel? Is he in love or is he in love with the story, the taunt of heartbreak, the hollow ache where hope had once languished in his chest? Being in love is really just hope, a projected future, scripting another person into the story you’d like to tell. Scripting yourself as someone he’d fall in love with.
The fiction hurts more than the truth. The truth is that he’s sitting on Mingyu’s couch in the semi-dark and waiting for an answer. The fiction is the one happy future he imagined, where the scene ends with a kiss instead of silence. The truth is that nothing really makes sense, frayed plot lines ending in empty air.
“I’m sorry,” Minghao says into the darkness. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, I’m sorry,” says Mingyu, but then he says nothing else. Into his silence one might read the potential for a plot twist. The truth is, he’s still looking for something to say to make this all mean something.
“I’m sorry,” Minghao repeats, tasting the words, following the path to the end. “I didn’t mean to ruin everything.”
But he did. Deep down he wanted to destroy the bud of hope before it came into bloom. Before he let himself live in a fairy tale. Who are you, if you are not telling yourself a story about yourself? A jumbled mess of experiences and memories. A question, unasked. An impression, a thumb against a bruise.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” says Mingyu.
Minghao laughs. “I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. “That I made you play this part.”