James is the kind of guy the internet is currently obsessed with.
You've seen the threads. "Get you a soft boy who stays home, makes food, and calls you pretty." He's a bit chubby in that cuddly, safe way, wears thick-rimmed glasses sometimes, and knows everything about 1970s synthesizers but can't figure out how to change a tire or why I might be upset that he's "offering" me money he didn't even earn.
He's smart, technically. He can explain msth and computer science for three hours without breathing. But when it comes to the actual, broken edges of being a person? He's got the emotional sharpness of a marshmallow.
Every morning, without fail, my phone buzzes at 9:00 AM.
James: Good morning, most beautiful girl in the world. I hope today treats you as well as you treat me. <3
On day fifty, it was sweet. On day three hundred and something? It felt like a recurring bill I couldn't pay. It was a notification I swiped away like a spam email.
The thing about constant compliments is that they eventually lose their shape. They turn into white noise. When he tells me I'm "stunning" while I'm sitting in my pajamas with unwashed hair and a face full of resentment, he isn't seeing me. He's seeing the idea of me. He's seeing his "Girlfriend."
I'm just a character in his very wholesome, very boring movie.
James: Hey babe, I saw this and thought of you!
It was a link to a $200 designer candle that smelled like "Rain on a Library."
Me: James, I can't afford a $200 candle. My parents are literally arguing about the water bill in the next room.
James: Oh, I know! I just meant the library part reminded me of you because you're so smart. I'm not saying you should buy it! Just that it's your vibe. :)
See? That's the Golden Retriever Paradox. He's so genuinely "good" that you feel like a monster for pointing out how useless his thoughts are. He isn't trying to taunt me with his wealth, he literally just doesn't connect the dots. He thinks "vibes" are more important than "utility."
He loves me. That's the worst part. He loves me with this pure, uncomplicated devotion that makes me want to itch my skin off.
He looks at me with those soft, puppy eyes, and I can see his whole world reflecting back.
And what does he see? He sees a girl who is "sweet" and "smart" and "mysterious."
He doesn't see the girl who spent an hour yesterday trying to figure out if she could sell her old school books for gas money. He doesn't see the girl who wants to reach through the phone and shake him until his glasses fall off just so he'll look at the world for one second without the filter of his parents' credit card.
"You're so lucky," my friend Sarah (the one who still texts me once a month out of pity) said during a brief call. "James is like, the ultimate boyfriend. He's so gentle."
"Yeah," I said, staring at a crack in my bedroom wall. "He's very gentle."
So is a fog. But you can still get lost in it. You can still suffocate in something that doesn't have a single sharp edge.
I looked at my phone again. Another text.
James: Just thinking about your smile. It's my favorite thing in the universe.
I felt a surge of actual, physical nausea. I haven't smiled at him in weeks. Not a real one. Not the kind that reaches your eyes. If he really loved me, he'd notice the smile was missing. But he only loves the version of me that lives in his head.
I went to my "Saved" folder on Instagram.
Maya had posted a new photo. No caption. Just her standing in a crowded subway, looking tired and annoyed and intensely, vibrantly alive.
I wondered if anyone called her "the most beautiful girl in the world" every morning at 9:00 AM. I hoped not. I hoped she had someone who told her she looked like hell when she did, someone who argued with her, someone who lived in the same world as her.
I looked back at James's text.
I typed out: Thanks, Jamie.
And then I went back to being the cardboard box.