My therapist says I could be on the autistic spectrum based on things I’ve been sharing with her and is worried about me burning out. She wanted to talk more about it, but I haven’t had time to schedule an appointment with her in over two months. I haven’t told anyone yet—part of me worries I’m going to be brushed off. I can picture Marissa rolling her eyes and telling me to “power through it,” and my moms will tell me some variation of “You’re just unique.”
Another part of me is afraid to discover that Sasha, the real me, doesn’t fit what’s expected of Sassy. Time spent on understanding myself means less time spent on her, and Sassy is not allowed to struggle.
This time, Marissa really does go home, and it’s just me in an empty house. I need to get better at being alone, so in a way, this is a necessary test. As I move through the rooms, the quiet seems to echo around me, amplifying every creak of the floorboards. I like being by myself, but with other people in the house. I don’t think I enjoy beingalonealone.
I settle in bed to watch a show, but the silence sticks tothe walls, punctuated only by the sound of my tablet in the background.
My mind wanders to Kai, to the look on his face when he asked me to be friends again. Did he really mean it? Can we be friends like we used to?
I don’t know anything about him anymore. It shocked me to hear he had stopped drawing and writing, and as much as I wanted to know why, I’ve been out of his life for so long, I don’t have the right to ask. Besides, he blocked me everywhere after our breakup. Well, everywhere except on Spotify. I guess he forgot, or maybe he didn’t care. It’s not like I could reach out through there.
I would listen to his playlists sometimes, though, trying to get a glimpse of how he was doing, wondering if he still listened to epic music when he wanted to drown out his thoughts, or made travel playlists whenever he was excited about a trip because he likes walking around feeling as if he’s in a movie. My music was never among his choices—I doubt he’s listened to my album, but sometimes a song would play that I also really liked, even if he didn’t know, and I’d smile, like despite everything, we were still connected somehow.
Dragging myself off the bed, I dig through the depths of my closet until I find a neglected box. Two years ago I hid it so I’d never have to look at it again, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. Inside there are keepsakes, like the ticket stubs from the movie Kai and I went to see on our first date. The heart-shaped shell Mia and I found on the beach. The crumpled-up notes that Kai, Mia, and I used to pass in class. The Levi Ackerman plushie Kai got me for my birthday.It came with an Erwin Smith plushie companion, but I lost him, and I’ve had a feeling that my Levi plushie hates me ever since.
It smells musty, but I hold it close, a mix of emotions stirring in my chest. They say nostalgia is bittersweet, but right now it feels overwhelmingly bitter. I don’t know how Kai and I can even begin to pick up where we left off when that chapter of my life closed a long time ago.
My phone lights up with a FaceTime from Mia, ripping me from my thoughts.
“Finally! You picked up on the first try!” She smiles at the screen.
“¿Todo bien? ¿Es super tarde on the East Coast, no?” I scramble back to the bed. With the lights turned off, I look like a blob speaking Spanglish.
“¿Eh? Pero si es muy pronto, just fiveAM,” she says. Mia’s family on her mom’s side is Puerto Rican, so growing up we used to switch between Spanish and English a lot. My mood lifts hearing her voice. She stands in front of her window, looking stylish in her workout clothes, a light blue shirt accentuating her soft bronze skin as she ties her hair into a ponytail.
“Exactly, it’s fiveAM. That’s not early in the morning, it’s late at night,” I grumble. Mia is an early bird, but she’s knocked out cold by eightPM. As for me, the idea of waking up at fiveAMmakes me want to commit arson. “Are you going to the lab?” I ask, curious about her latest internship. Mia wants to become a microbiologist, and recently she’s been interested in learning more about how gut bacteria influencethe immune system, which leaves me in awe every time she tells me about her classes. She’s literally the coolest person ever.
“I’m going on a run with Jason. He’s running a marathon soon. I signed up with him.”
“You barfed all over my shoes the last time you tried to run a marathon,” I remind her. “And you hate running.”
“Details, details.” She waves a hand. “I wasn’t going to sign up—I’m pretty swamped, but he asked me a few times, and I guess I could use some exercise after studying all week.”
“You don’t have to pick up a hobby you don’t like just for him, Mimi.”
“I won’t, don’t worry. It’s normal to take an interest in each other’s hobbies when you’re seeing someone. It’s a good way to get to know them better.”
She’s right, but I don’t see him picking up any of her hobbies in return, which bothers me somehow. Jason is Mia’s situationship. They met during her internship this summer—she tripped carrying some samples and they almost landed on him. It was kind of a meet-cute, but with some biohazard. I’m not sure what Mia sees in him. Maybe it’s because I haven’t met Jason in person, and maybe I’ll change my mind when I do, but based on his social media, he’s an average white dude with all the personality of an NPC—no offense to the NPC. Sometimes he’ll post a shirtless picture with a lengthy philosophy caption that he proceeds to mansplain to his followers in painstaking detail and with an alarming amount of typos. I don’t know how the fuck hegot into NYU, although I do remember Mia saying he has rich parents.
“Is it getting serious?” I ask, switching to Spanish. She’s been hanging out with him a lot lately, which is fine. It’s just… suddenly most of our conversations revolve around this guy.
There’s a pause, and Mia’s lips press into a line. “For now we’re just getting to know each other,” she says before flashing a bright smile. “I’m having fun.”
“That’s great, Mimi. You deserve fun.”
“Oh, he told me this thing the other day when we were kissing—”
“Nooo! Mimi, please spare me.” I laugh. “I don’t want to know.”
“Seriously, though, you don’t miss kissing?” she asks. “Or sex? I know you’re not attracted to anyone that way, and that’s totally fine—”
“I can’t remember the last time I thought about it. But that’s a me thing, not an ace thing.” When I shrug, she makes a face. “I don’t know. Remember that comment I read that I told you about? The one that equated sex to pizza? Some people crave pizza whenever they get hungry. Others only want a slice if their partner makes it. Some people hate pizza, even when they’re hungry, so they don’t want to have it. Others like me don’t crave pizza at all, although they don’t necessarily hate it. It’s just not something I find myself wanting to have.”
“But what if you get hungry?”
“I don’t know, girl, I make my own food?”
Her laughter rings through the screen, and I relax against the pillows. Mia is the person I’ve talked to the most about my asexuality and aromanticism. She never judges me, and although we experience attraction differently, I love that we trust each other to share these things with one another.
