Never Meant to Be - Personal Essay

2018 -

The photograph is edited in black and white, a snapshot of a time before we were crucifying each other with each word we spoke, before he would insult me to teach me, before I realized there was nothing I could do to change him, because he was not the same person I knew before. Maybe he always had been that person, and I was too caught up in his arms to notice. That night, just before the picture was taken, we had been to a business fashion show at UC Irvine’s Student Center, where he had been modeling. He’d wanted me to model with him on the spot; I’d dressed up in a sleek black dress complete with a simple string of pearls, my hair thrown up with a diamond flower clip. Although in different circumstances, the dress could have been something I wore to an interview, the black pumps I wore to the event were too high and the silver tinged black eyeshadow I wore was much too dark for any work day. Despite my protests, he insisted I was too hot for them not to let me in. After asking around to all the supervisors of the event, we were told it wasn’t possible. He was only bothered for a moment. “We can put on our own show one day, “ he told me with a wink, flashing that chipped-tooth smile of his and pecking me on the lips before taking his place backstage. I took a seat at the very front of the catwalk for the best views. I snapped picture after picture, cheering him on. Afterwards we stuffed our faces with berry and caramel cheesecake bites, our favorite dessert, before heading back to our residence hall for the night. As we climbed the stairs to the front door he told me he’d organized a modeling gig for us both. It was one of the many plans he wouldn’t follow through. But I, blissfully unaware of this, told him how wonderful that was and we kissed before heading inside, a big sloppy makeout sort of kiss. “We’re so attractive.” I said, chucking. “Well you’re the one who’s hot.” By this time we were lounging in the kitchen, the lights dimmed. He picked on some leftover strawberries in the fridge which had been labeled “Please Don’t Eat”. He ate all but three of them. He pulled me up from the couch I was sitting on and we stood in front of the giant mirror that made up the back wall of the kitchen. Because this was a performing arts hall, the building had been designed so the space could be used to dance. We admired each other in the mirror for a moment. He was wearing his best shirt, a black button down with grey trim at the collar. The first two collar buttons were undone, bearing the top of his chest. His square frame “spectacles”, as he called them, accentuated his dark brown eyes. “Damn. Look at us.” “Why do you think I keep saying we should do a photoshoot one day?” He turned toward me and slid his arms around my waist. I leaned my head against his chest. He once sketched a picture of us like this on a sheet of printer paper, after a nightmare. In the picture we are silhouettes outlined by wings which stretch from our backs off the edge of the page. His are jagged, grey and black, mine white, pure. Our bodies are shaded in gradients; most of his is dark, but the charcoal begins to fade into white as you move closer to the chest. Mine is the opposite, the darkness touching my chest before fading into the white of the background. “We are changing each other,” he said when he explained the sketch to me. In the corner of the the sketch he wrote, “Destined to fall in love, never meant to be.” “I have an idea.” He fished his phone out of his pocket, and said, “Stay there.” He began to move around the room, every so often glancing down at his phone. We would end up doing this a lot over the course of our relationship. He was always looking to take photos of us, to capture every moment. He decided to prop it with one of the napkin holders on the table to act as a tripod. He set himself, hands around my waste, facing me, his chin angled slightly down, my eyes shining. The camera clicked. “Just like my sketch,” he said. His eyes lingered on the picture for a few more seconds. He put his phone down on the table, and knelt in front of me, his hand outstretched. “Will you have this dance?” I laughed. “Of course.” We slid into a salsa step, and he spun me into a dip. “Hold there one second.” He adjusted the phone once more for a final picture, then returned to his previous position, arm supporting me as I leaned into his weight. The camera shutter snapped; and for all I knew, destiny was wrong, and we would stay like this forever. ReplyForward