Beautiful Star

You almost got married when you were 13.

That’s the version of the story people remember. The part that makes someone stop and ask questions. But they don’t remember that you had homework due the next morning. Or that you cared about the constellation of acne scars you gave yourself by popping your pimples until your face hurt. Or that you couldn’t look into your own teacher’s eyes because of the day before. They don’t remember you. Just the story.

You used to write your name and put a colon afterwards, hoping the rest of the page would tell you who you were. It never worked. You didn’t know what came after. You knew how to please a man twice your age, but not how to make an egg. Your mom still picked your outfits for you. You picked the lacey undergarments. He knew you were 13, it was a fact. But only you knew what it meant to be 13 and doing what you were doing. 

Only you knew that when you were overwhelmed you would open Pinterest and search up “pink” to feel better. That when you were angry you would draw people on a piece of paper and then burn it. That when you were sad you would listen to quiet music with intellectual lyrics and look at the reflection of the moon on the window. But all people see is the fascinating story you told them just to sparkle, to get them to gravitate toward you.

That’s the thing about not knowing yourself: You want other people to know you. You’re ready for them to define you. So you spill. You don’t bother turning the faucet off and your mouth pours out things that are forbidden to talk about. Detail by detail, a painting from the past is brought to life. 

You know how to tell the story. Performance is an art. You know what to say so people will gasp, and how to hook them in so they go quiet when you continue. You hate that you know. You hate the predictability.

That’s the thing about not knowing yourself: You want other people to know you. You’re ready for them to define you. So you spill.

Being predictable is one of your biggest fears. You have always felt too complex and too complicated for someone to just know who you are by your answer to a simple question. That’s why you let that story be your introduction. You enjoy the surprise on their faces. You enjoy hearing, “You don’t seem like the person who would do that.” You enjoy it in the moment. You dread what comes after. 

The silence where your name becomes an afterthought. Where the actions you regret become embedded within you. Where people stop seeing you and start seeing his victim.

I Was Always There

It takes years to realize that you’ve spent so much time explaining the story that you forgot to introduce yourself. You tell people every single detail about what happened and walk away without telling them that your name means beautiful star or that you have a cat named Priya. It’s not that you want to leave, it’s that they beat you to it.

Maybe that’s why you kept writing your name with a colon. You thought your name was only the beginning of the sentence.

The funny thing is you were never that hard to find. You could be found in the pink bedroom sections at IKEA roleplaying as a girl you wished you could be. You could be found in the kitchen when no one was home searching up “easy, quick recipes to make.” You could be found arguing with your old assistant principal about why their homeschooling institution was detrimental to children. You could be found in the park writing an essay about a conversation you had three days ago. You could be found writing about him, and his car, and why you think he did what he did.

But as the years passed, I realized I had spent so much time studying the person who changed my story that I forgot I was the author of it. I used to think my name needed something after it to explain why it mattered. I thought I needed a story impressive enough to make people stay. But I was always there before the colon. As I sit on this white window ledge, I know that no matter what, I was there. I was there in the park choosing the path with the bridge, and when I took the shower after I didn’t give consent. I was there when he was in my life, and I’m still here after it.

I’m here when my eyes immediately catch the pink clothing on the shelf, or when I say “hi dog!” to every dog I see on the street. I’m here when I write about him and lean into the attention, and when I write about knowing myself. And being here is not as grand as I once thought it would be.

Being here looks surprisingly ordinary. And that is unpredictable in itself.

Maybe nothing needs to come after the colon. Maybe the colon is just a pair of eyes watching. Two dots looking forward, waiting to see what comes next.