I stare at the image on my phone, tracing Cosmos’ face on the screen with my thumb. He’s holding up a book, open to a poem by Hafez, a Persian poet I’ve heard of, but have never read. It’s beautiful.
He just sent the picture, and while I love having a photo of him, seeing that he’s in the garden with a book of poetry has me concerned. I know he reads poetry after difficult surgeries. I’m just about to ask if he’s okay when another text comes through.
Cosmos:
No one died. In case you’re worried. I just couldn’t stop thinking about you, and thinking about you made me remember this poem.
Sometimes he seems a little too smooth to be real, too much of a romantic for me to believe what he’s saying. But his words still make me swoon.
Cosmos:
How’s the writing coming?
Slow. I’m having trouble finding the motivation to work on my thesis. The story just isn’t exciting for me.
Cosmos:
What gets you excited?
You. I bite my lip. Definitely can’t say that. Since he already knows my deep dark secret about writing a romance, I take the risk to be honest. Even if it’s not as honest as the first answer that popped into my head.
I guess the romance I’m working on.
Cosmos:
Use that as motivation for your thesis. Revise a chapter. Write a chapter. And let me know when you get to the good stuff in the romance.
What do you mean by the good stuff?
Cosmos:
I think you know.
You just want me to write something spicy so I’ll be all hot and bothered when I see you next, is that it?
I send the text without really thinking. It’s not like me at all, but it’s easier to be flirty, and feel sexy, with a screen between us.
Cosmos:
You caught me
Or maybe I just want to read how you’d write romance—a cheat sheet
There’s no way I’m letting him read this book. Just the thought feels way too vulnerable. The littlebit he read already was mortifying enough.
I’m not my character. Fiction is fiction.
Cosmos:
Maybe. But all fiction comes from life.
There’s truth in his statement, but I want to push against it. If all fiction comes from life, what do these stories say about me? It’s a question I’m not sure how to answer. One I definitely don’t want Cosmos asking.
I think again about the conversation in class a few weeks ago about only writing what you know. I’m not writing what I know when I work on my romance novel. So much of it is purely imagined. And I think maybe that’s part of the fun.
Before I can think how to respond, another text comes through from Cosmos.
Cosmos:
