Over coffee, I find out that Simon’s from the UK. I detected a slight accent, but apparently he grew up in New York and Dubai, where his dad headed some petrol engineering division. His family now lives in London. Simon’s a junior and he’s studying design. He likes to sketch and draw outside because “that’s where life is,” he says.

Simon’s so open about his art, about his purpose in life, that I suddenly feel like I’m in the closet. Like I’m not being honest about who I am. Like I’m living a lie. And perhaps I am. So I decided to change that.

“So what about you? What do you do?” he asks. I’m struck by his choice of words. He doesn’t ask what I’m trying to do, what I’m planning on doing when I grow up, what I’m majoring in. Instead, he asks what I do. As if I’m not in some transitional phase of my life. As if I’m actually embodying my true self right now.

“I’m a writer,” I say. It’s the first time I’ve ever said those words out loud. I didn’t say “I’m an aspiring writer” or “I’m planning on becoming a writer.” I feel liberated. I’m out. I’m not hiding who I am. The sentence is so simple and elegant and it has taken me 18 years to formulate it and embody it. To admit to the world, and to myself, that that’s who I am.

I look at Simon. He shrugs. Accepts it. Like it’s no big deal.

“That’s cool,” he says.

Yes, it is.

Over coffee, Simon and I find out that we have a lot in common. It’s weird that we do since we’ve had such different upbringings. But I guess parents can be very similar no matter the culture or where they reside in the world. Simon’s close to his parents, they talk every other day, but they are not happy about his choice of career.

“Growing up, my father always told me that he wanted me to do whatever would make me happy. Except that, to him, that meant that I should pursue engineering. Like him.”

I know exactly what he’s talking about.

“He was genuinely distressed when I started painting in high school. He thinks museums are some place you go on vacation just to say you did, but for no other reason. But for me, I felt this euphoria that first time I saw the Dying Gaul in Rome. It was the most beautiful thing I’d seen up to that point and it just touched me on this instinctual level. I was 14 and I knew that no matter what I did, I wanted to do something that would make other people feel like I did when I saw that sculpture.”

* * *

What was supposed to be one cup of coffee ended up being three. We stayed for close to three hours in that coffee shop talking, discussing, and, mostly, laughing. When he finally walks me back to my building, I actually feel a little sad that we are separating. He’s so easy to talk to, it feels like magic is in the air. I’m afraid of breaking the spell.

At the bottom of my building, Simon grabs my hand. He pulls me close to him and brushes a few strands of hair out of my face.

“You have the most beautiful eyes,” he whispers in his raspy voice that makes me go weak at the knees.

His rough fingers linger around my neck as he licks his lips. He leans closer to me. I feel his breath on my face. Then he kisses me. He parts my lips with his.

When he buries his hands in my hair, I kiss him back. I push back at him and the passion that builds within me overtakes me. We push against each other, our bodies intertwining and separating with our breaths.

We stand there until I lose all sense of time and place. The whole world falls away and we’re the only ones that exist. The only ones that matter.

“Get a room!” I hear someone say faintly behind me. Suddenly, the outside world rushes in.

Simon keeps going ignoring the comment, but I can’t help but pull away.

“Alice?” Dylan says with a chuckle. “Sorry, I didn’t know it was you.”

And then I see them. Tristan and Tea. They’re standing behind Dylan. Both look uncomfortable.

I do the only thing I can think of.

“Simon, these are my roommates, Dylan and Tristan. And this is…” I don’t know how to introduce her. I thought she was a friend, but then she wasn’t. This is the first time I’ve really seen her in a long time. “And this is Tea. Everyone, this is Simon.”

“Hi Simon,” they all say practically at the same time.

Simon nods.

“We’re just going upstairs to hang out. Come join us,” Dylan says nonchalantly. Tea, Tristan, and I stare at him as if he’s dense. But he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Sure,” Simon says.

Now I look at Simon as if he had lost his mind. But there’s nothing left to do. I can’t very well un-invite him.