You Must Be the One

Emerald 2/2

Dear Bradley,

It was as awkward as I'd anticipated. The four of us in the same room, at the same table. I know I was playing a game, just like I know that I'm good at it. Dress up. Walk the red carpet. Pretend I'm not falling apart at the seams. Put on a happy face.

I saw you there, of course, and right away, you knew something was wrong, squeezed my hand. You couldn't say much and neither could I, but just having you close by was a comfort.

Getting to present with you was a momentary respite. For a few minutes, I was safe; in a bubble where nothing could touch me and as we stood off to the side, my head found your shoulder. I couldn't help it---I had to cling to your calming presence for as long as I could.

For most of the night, I felt trapped---in my body, in my own emotions, itching to get out, uncomfortable and stuck and I really wanted to fucking scream. To leave.

But that's not realistic. It's not polite. So, it goes back to the game of graciousness and nicities. Of returning tight smiles that don't reach anyone's eyes. The kind of pretending I'm used to by now.

Only when they called my name, did the facade peel back. Yours were the first pair of arms I went into (I can note that now with significance that's hard to explain) and my "I love you," was more direct and genuine than any other sentiment that came from my mouth that entire evening.

My sweet copilot in all of the things.

All I can ruminate on is how Irina saw. She saw how I looked at you. Christian saw. If she'd confronted me, B, I don't know if I could've been anything other than one hundred percent honest. I couldn't have lied to her face.

Chris wouldn't have asked, point blank. With him, it's passive aggressive remarks, disguised as innocuous comments that pack a whole lot of venom behind them. I almost wish he'd have the balls to accuse me of something, yell that I'm sleeping with you because at least then, I could give him a definitive answer.

I don't know how long we can keep doing this. That's stupid, isn't it. Because we could keep doing this forever, couldn't we. Shove this away and sleepwalk through the rest of our lives. Don't think about it or speak about it.

It would still be there, though, just dormant instead of alive. Would we wait for it to bubble over...destroy us and anyone else in its path?

Part of me doesn't want to find out.

Love,

S

Dear Bradley,

Realistically, I know I'm setting us up. When I asked you and you said yes, it was just those two seconds of bullshit about how it would be "good practice for the real thing," before we completely dropped the niceties.

We haven't sung together in almost two years. Back then, in character, it was permissible to allow feelings in. Hell, it was what we were doing: the entire point. And in interviews, we would spin these beautiful stories about how we were always Jackson and Ally, every waking minute we were together. It wasn't an exaggeration; we were both one hundred percent committed.

But you know where those little moments happened. In the recording studio, late at night and into the early morning when we were bone tired from shooting all day and the masks slipped (even if it was only ever so slightly). The instances where we were alone and there was no way to call it anything other than what it was. As uncomfortable as it may have been to identify, as difficult as it was...we were also realists. Acknowledging it at the time meant something dangerous. Out of bounds.