Gaslighter

06

          I could tell he was scared. I was well aware of the way he glanced at me during lectures, quickly looking away as though someone could guess what was going on between us just by that one gesture, and I wanted so badly to be able to do the same. He was iridescent and everyone looked at him, everyone stared, drunkenly mesmerized. Why did he expect me to be any different? Was he not aware of the effect he had on people? Was he not aware of the effect he had on me?

          "What do you want to do once you finish college?" he asked, breaking the silence, and I looked up from my laptop. He didn't return the look, still staring down at his own screen and typing furiously.

          "I'm not sure," I replied. "Do you?"

          "Well, I do have a PhD." He flashed me a quick smug grin for added dramatic effect. Though I knew it was just a joke, my heart was tight, being squeezed by an invisible hand, as it always was whenever I was reminded of the massive chasm between us. It made it almost impossible to believe that, one day, he would love me. I didn't want to think about it in terms of loving me too, not wanting to create expectations and fall flat on my face with nothing to steady my fall besides my heartbreak and heartache as soon as I fell in love with a seemingly unattainable man. "I did spend most of my college years not knowing what to do next, though. All I knew was that I loved film, and really wanted a degree. Then, I applied for a master's degree. Not satisfied, perhaps too ambitious for my own good, I decided to get a doctorate. Stephen Delaroux always said I'd always be welcome home in case I wanted to try out academia, but I kind of want to . . . see the world. Capture it. Remember it forever. I've always wanted to do something memorable, you know? I just don't know how. Do I want to direct? Do I want to produce? Do I want to write? Do I want to do all three? I know I have the theoretical knowledge, but I've never really explored the practical side of it all. Maybe I'll try directing or producing; I think I've had enough of writing after two theses."

          That was the most I'd heard him say outside of a lecture ever since I first met him and I was well aware I was gaping at him like an idiot with mashed potatoes for a brain.

          Even though his plans weren't concrete, even though he still felt lost, he still knew what options there were and the ones he knew he didn't want to pursue. I, on the other hand, had only developed a passion for film because of my parents and there were times when I wondered whether that love was genuine. After all, like Chase had said, I was a Romero and I was doing exactly what was expected of me—I was getting a film degree at the best university in the country for film enthusiasts, the alma mater of so many people who had gone and done wondrous things, and I'd do great things myself.

          Hopefully. I had no idea what I wanted to do with a film degree; I liked documentaries and short films, but I couldn't imagine myself being involved in cinema, for example. I thought I was meant for festivals, maybe Sundance, not necessarily Cannes, and the indie life felt so much more appealing to me than delivering blockbuster after blockbuster.

          "How are you liking academia so far?" I questioned, even though there was a high probability of regret overpowering every other emotion I'd feel after hearing his response.

          "It's okay." He reached out for his glass of Merlot. The gurgling sound echoed around us, my heartbeat racing in anticipation, and nausea wrapped around my entrails. "They pay me really well, that's for sure, and I suppose it's nice to pass along the knowledge I've acquired throughout the years, but it's not my passion. It feels like I'm trying to fill Stephen's shoes, even though I know I'll never come close to matching his genius."

          "You don't have to be him," I reminded him, as he brought the glass to his lips. The sleeves of his black shirt had been rolled up to his elbows, while I was shivering under the weight of my knit sweater. "I don't think he wants you to be a miniature Stephen Delaroux. Men like that can never be replicated. If you ask me, you're doing a wonderful job at being yourself and doing whatever the hell you want to do."