one
LILIANA
Despite my best efforts,failure finally caught up to me.
I've outrun it before. The crochet projects gathering dust in the back of my closet tried to best me, but through gritted teeth I turned those strings of yarn into something tangible. When my planner tells me there’s not enough time to accomplish everything I’ve scheduled, I adjust. I make time. Even when outside forces like a bad project partner nearly destroy my grade, I pivot.
I don’t fail. I can’t.
This is different. It’s beyond failing at an activity or a skill; Iamthe failure.I’vebecome the ball of yarn tied up in a sad excuse of knots. And I can’t blame anyone but myself.
“What about this guy?” Rosie flicks her tanned wrist at our television, stray pieces of popcorn flying onto our fading blue carpet.
This is what being a failure entails, I guess. My master’s degree relying on the scarce and scary dating pool of downtown Boston.
Dying sunlight phases through our gray balcony curtains, crawling across the thrifted coffee table and covering the dating profile projected onto our television screen. He must be, at least, the 50theligible bachelor of the evening. I don’t try to see what he looks like behind the glare. His lack of a shirt and “Looking for a good time, not a long time” caption tell me enough.
I ready myself to swipe left, and Rosie’s hands shoot up in defeat. “Oh, come on!”
“You want me to date that guy?!” The scratchy fabric of our couch crinkles against my pajama pants when I turn to her, shocked. I reject his profile before she tries to take the phone from me.
“He was cute.” She shrugs. I sigh.
What could’ve happened down the line for a woman as stunning as my best friend, an olive-skinned, curvy, mathematical genius, to be so generous with her compliments to men?
“Besides,” she mumbles through the popcorn in her mouth, “You said you were desperate.”
Well. She’s not wrong.
Accepting failure is one thing. Coming to terms with the fact that I’ve only reached this low point because of awriting assignment, is another.
When I enrolled in a romance course for my degree, I thought it would be easy. I enjoy reading romance books. The colorful shelves lining our apartment walls are proof. I excel in academics, and up until this semester, no coursework has ever been too challenging.
Writing a romantic short story for a grade? It sounded laughable at the time.
As it turns out, reading romance stories doesn’t translate into writing one, and memorizing plot structure doesn’t mean I can put it into action. My first assignment grade should have been enough of a warning. It was only a rough outline, but the margins were still stained in red ink. Flaws I wasn’t aware of before were brought to the surface.
Past me told myself it was a part of the process. That pep talk didn’t last very long.
The second round of criticism and the “Is this supposed to be satire?” comment made me realize I was in over my head.
Liliana Kahale, ever the over-achiever, successful at everything she’s done and the pride and joy of her academic driven, PhD wielding parents, finally found something she couldn’t do.
A single uninspired writing assignment has consumed me enough that I don’t have energy for my other writing course, either. Every assignment now is littered in red ink, and my grade points on the university’s website are going down, down, down.
Desperation came earlier this week. I tried to read the novels that influenced me and watch the romcoms that I obsessed over during my teenage years. Nothing worked. Unfortunately, Chad Michael Murray didn’t have the solution to my problems. But at least he looked good.
After catching me nursing a bottle of cheap wine, Rosie suggested something only she would be brave enough to say aloud: I should go on a series of dates, hope I fall in love, and use it to inspire myself.
“Become the character.” She encouraged, passing the bottle of wine back to me, words slurring. “Be one with your story.”
She was drunk. And crazy. Unsurprisingly, I said no, both because it’s absurd and because I don’t want to date someone for homework. Some lows are avoidable.
But days and another low grade later, reality has officially set in. I’m coming to terms with the fact that no matter how badly I want this, and how much pressure is on my shoulders to make my parents proud, I was wrong. I don’t have what it takes to be a writer.
After getting a ten on today’s assignment—five points for turning it in and five for adding my name—I trudged home and let my roommate talk me into a dating profile. Anything to stop me from obsessing over red ink on a white page.
“Ooh, this guy has a dog!”
