Page 86 of Kiss Me, Maybe

“Fuck them,” Natalia says, like it’s that easy. “Seriously. The people who turned on you can go to hell. They don’t matter. But the people in your corner—what makes you think they care so little about you that they wouldn’t happily take the time to get to know this side of you?

“Coming out isn’t enough,” she continues. “You can’t expect the people who don’t know enough about your identity to be immediately caught up with where you are inside of it. Posting about your journey online isn’t enough. All it does is create a barrier that gives you the illusion of safety, but take it from me—that so-called safe space you think you’ve created for yourself?” She shakes her head. “There’s nothing safe about it.”

“Yeah.” I let out a long sigh. “I learned that the hard way.”

“You have to be honest with the people who care about you. They may not be able to relate to you, but there are ways you can make them understand where you’re coming from.”

Why does she have to make so much sense?

“You’re right.” I heave a sigh. “But it’s not as easy as itsounds.”

“Nothing ever is.” She shakes her head.

“How did you get over the dogpiling that happened to you?”

“I’m far from over it,” she confesses. “It took so much from me. Some days I’m not sure I’ll ever fully move on. Especially on days when I consider giving up art altogether. For all the good it’s done me, it’s also nearly destroyed me. Deteriorated my mental health. What’s the point in putting myself through hell for something that doesn’t serve me anymore? I gave up social media for the same reason. So why not this?”

Could I give up social media like she did? It’s done me a world of good—at least in the beginning. It brought me that connection I so desperately wanted from other people like me. It led Briana to understand my identity and apologize for the past. It brought me and Krystal together after years of pining for each other from afar. Would we have ever found a deeper way into each other’s lives if it wasn’t for the scavenger hunt?

“Why haven’t you?”

“Because it wasn’t always like this,” she answers. “I think I was at my happiest when my art was just for me. When I didn’t care what anyone else thought. If I was talented enough, or queer enough, or making enough money to pay rent. I didn’t have any expectations or undue pressure. Only passion. Drive. This itch beneath my fingers to pick up a brush, or whatever I could find to create with.”

I’m no artist, but I’m not unfamiliar with the feeling. Back when my first video reached an obscene amount of numbers, I was overflowing with content ideas. I itched to talk about myexperience more, to connect with other people like me. The scavenger hunt was supposed to be for me, but now it feels out of my hands, especially with Erika’s final request that I shut it down. Everything I’ve done has been in fear of disappointing the people following me, but that happened anyway.

“I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself,” Natalia says, eyes shining, “for being incapable of choosing anything butthis.”

My throat swells until all I can think about is her.Krystal.Is that what love becomes over time? Good until it’s great—great until it fails? Even when you think you’ve found the one? Is that the reason Krystal gave up on love in the first place? I don’t want to fail before I even begin, but I don’t want to live in this constant fear of an outcome I have no control over either.

“Is that how you fell into a slump?” I ask, ignoring the sheen in her eyes.

“It’s part of the trap when you’re paid by commissions. People tell me what they want, and I create it for them. Sure, some pieces surprise me by how much of myself I pour into them. Usually it comes out unwillingly, and giving over the final product becomes a harder act.” She’s silent for a moment, contemplative. “I didn’t give you a real answer aboutThe Woman in Wanting.”

My back straightens as I regard her. “I figured that was on purpose.”

“It was.” She smirks, but her eyes are still haunted. “The Womanis me, ten years ago when I told everyone I wanted to be an artist. Before I made a name for myself, before my talent turned on me, before the mental breakdowns and online discourse and all the other bullshit that comes with monetizingyour passion. When I was so sure of what I wanted—so sure that nothing else would do.”

Behind my closed eyelids, I can see it. A younger Natalia, full of hope and wonder and pride. Unknowingly tearing her heart from her chest and offering it up to the world, not knowing what would happen next. A self-righteous naivete that comes with the territory when you’re seventeen and think you know better than everyone else.

“More and more, I find myself missing the days when I hoarded my art. When every brushstroke belonged to me and me alone. But therein lies the catch.” She raises an index finger. “You can’t be an artist without an audience.”

“Is it the criticism that gets to you?”

“It’s far from the only thing that gets to me,” she says. “Some days, it feels like I betrayed myself. Or rather, like my dream betrayed me. It’s not possible to do this full-time and support myself on my own, and even if it were, I’m sure I’d find new ways to get sick of it. Every so often, I have to make myself take a step back from the thing that once brought me nothing but joy. I waste sleep worrying over how a client will react to a certain piece, what I’ll do if they hate it. I start the project over in my head completely before they ever receive it. Ways to make it better, more what they want.”

“That sounds like a lot of pressure to put on yourself.”

“My best friend said the same thing,” she says. “She’s the one who suggested I take a break.”

“And how is that going?” I ask. “Get any clarity yet?”

“Nope.” She shakes her head before looking back at me. “I don’t think I was very helpful. I’m sorry if I couldn’t give you the advice you were looking for.”

“You were more helpful than you think,” I tell her. “I hope we can stay in touch when the scavenger hunt is over.”

“You really want to be friends with a struggling, reclusive artist whose life is falling apart?” She raises a brow at me.

“Only if you want to be friends with a library assistant–slash–canceled influencer who lives with her parents.”

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