I took those heavy books to our trip because I didn’t want to come out to you as shallow, which I ended up doing anyway. You had written a dedication on the book you had sent me—you perceived me as intelligent, interesting, and strong, it said—and I wanted to live up to that image. And the problem was exactly that: trying to emulate that person you had conceived out of my writing. My usual disregard for other people’s opinions about me suddenly turned into an uncomfortable bout of self-conscience, perhaps because I was so fascinated with you, or the idea of you, or even the mere possibility of having someone to be corny with after all this time.
I mention this, even though it doesn’t matter anymore, because it still stings. It still stings that I actually thought less of myself in your presence because you were such a big scholar and I was just an undergrad student who knew nothing about anything. After all, you—you of all people, genius among geniuses, crème de la crème—had chosen me for this holiday fling, and I didn’t know if I’d be able to measure up to your standards, so I thought I’d cover up my tiny ignorant self with academic books and unfinished homework at a time when I was even doubting whether I had chosen the right path for my future. I was a fool to think myself unworthy of you, because eventually you deemed me so.
So there you have it. I am shallow, and I don’t get jokes, and I seldom exercise. I’m non-conformist and grouchy, and I don’t read nearly as much as you do. But you should have seen all that naturally coming out of me, and not oozing through the cracks of my imperfect mask of shame. I’m sorry I tried so hard to please you.
What bothers me the most is that I still see you in my dreams, and in those dreams you finally take me for who I am. But who cares now whether you could like me or not in spite of myself? A writer could not ever spend her life beside a man who lives in utter silence.