So, I'm still on the aggressive positivity train. Choo-choo.
Everything was going great until James sent me a Dropbox link with the title: For My Soulmate: The Elara Collection.
It wasn't just a song. It was an album. Eight tracks. Forty-two minutes of James's soul poured out over upbeat, chirpy synth lines that sounded like the background music for a mobile game about farming.
And then... he started singing.
Look, I love James. I'm being the girl who loves James. But James has the singing voice of a very sincere, very congested teenager in a church choir. It's not "bad" in a way that's funny; it's just flat. It's earnest.
It's... thin.
He was singing lyrics like, "Your eyes are the ocean where I want to drown / You're the queen and I'll never let you down."
I sat there with my headphones on, staring at my bedroom wall, feeling the "cringe" try to claw its way out of my throat like an alien parasite. My lizard brain was screaming, "This is a disaster! Turn it off! Tell him to stay in his lane!"
But the New Elara? She just took a deep breath.
Thought: This sounds like a parody of a love song. New Response: He spent weeks on this. He's expressing his feelings. This is a gift.
I listened to all forty-two minutes. Every shaky high note. Every breathy "I love you" whispered over a drum machine. By the end, I felt like I'd just survived a physical endurance test.
James: So... what do you think?? I'm so nervous. I've never sung for anyone before. You're the only one who makes me feel brave enough to do it.
I looked at the text. I felt that heavy, familiar weight of the "Great Pretend." I couldn't be mean. I couldn't even be "honest." He was my baby now. He was the guy who blocked his only friend for me. You don't tell a guy like that his singing sounds like a dying radiator.
Me: Jamie... oh my god. I'm literally crying. (Not a lie, technically). It's so beautiful. I can't believe you did all this for me. Your voice is so sweet.
James: REALLY?? You liked the singing? I was so worried it was too much. I wanted it to be raw and real. Just like us.
Me: It was perfect. I'm going to listen to it on repeat.
That was a lie. A big, fat, forty-two-minute lie.
I felt a little bit sick. Is this what love is? Just a series of gentle deceptions designed to keep the other person from realizing they're embarrassing themselves?
He's so happy. He's practically vibrating through the phone. He thinks he's found his "calling" and that I'm his biggest fan. And I'm sitting here, realizing that "being good" means I've basically signed up to be the permanent audience for a one-man show I don't even like.
"Is that James's music?" my mom asked, walking past my room. "Sounds like a cat in a blender."
"Stop it, mom" I snapped, actually feeling protective. "He's being creative. At least he has a hobby."
I went back to my phone and sent James another heart.
I'm settling. I'm doing it. I'm a "Normal Person" who supports her boyfriend's mediocre art. It's fine. I'm fine. The "Russia" in my belly is currently being drowned out by a very out-of-tune synth solo, and honestly? Maybe that's the best I can hope for.
I closed my eyes and tried to hum one of the melodies. It was hard to find the key, but I kept trying.
I'm a good girlfriend. I'm a good girlfriend. I'm a good girlfriend.