Rent a Boyfriend

They remind me that there’s beauty and greatness out there, even in the darkness, and that I need to look for it.

Remember when you were young,” I said, still gazing out the window even though my parents were out of view, “and things seemed so easy yet so hard? I wish we’d known then to enjoy it while it lasted.

All relationships have problems. It’s how you solve them that matters.

Sometimes I'm ashamed of how I've clung to them with bloody, torn-apart hands, trying to make it work even after they show me again and again it's not worth it. But I'm somehow also ashamed of choosing myself now.

I wanted to reach into my chest and hand her my heart, so she could finally understand what made me tic. Maybe then she would also see how each of her words perpetuated the crack she and my father had put there months ago.

That desire to move forward out of love, even when it wasn’t perfect. Even when there was still anger underneath. Anger that, I hoped, would fade in time.

My drive, my loyalty, my selflessness—they were fostered by the community too. And I could love those pieces without embracing the negative parts.

I’m not an object, I’m not anyone’s property, and I’m just done with all this. I don’t care what any of you think of me anymore—for the first time, and much too long overdue.

To have that pressure, that need to please them even though you were hurting yourself to do it.

Apparently, those “display-only” soaps (which, in my defense, had been located closer to the sink than the regular soap) had been in her family for fucking generations, as if that were a thing. Not that I’d know—the only family heirloom we Chans passed down was insecurity and an inability to communicate.

With guests, she only had two extremes: so polite it was fake or so honest you wished she’d lie.

A tear rolled down my cheek. This week had flown by too fast. I wasn’t ready to pop our bubble yet. But it was already popped. All the decisions I’d been putting off, rushed in, demanding my attention.