I had a dream where I was living a life that felt too perfect. I was wearing the most gorgeous dress, but the hem was itchy. It was made of long black silk, cut so backless it almost went down too low. The room was filled, leaving me surrounded by beautiful people with the most beautiful guy beside me. At this event, everyone seemed so important, so impressive. Actors, billionaires and their trophy wives, directors, models, socialites — everyone you’d forgotten actually exist in real life. I was standing beside the very reason I was there. 

Crystal chandeliers. High ceilings. Heavy dimmed yellow lighting. Expensive champagne glasses filled with even more expensive champagne. Everyone held a glass in their hands but me. It was the most champagne-colored champagne I had ever seen, absolutely beautiful, but I didn’t want one. That was until my date brought me one. Real gentleman I got here. This gentleman and I started getting to know each other through these types of occasions. I had just made my first appearance at one of these events maybe around three to five months ago. As a journalist, you don’t usually get invited to these events but I filled in for my co-worker who became sick at the very last minute. She had given me the duty to interview some billionaire about their stock company. I didn’t know who to talk to so this British guy came to my rescue. Looking back, maybe that was the first thing I loved about him. He always took me to where I belonged. I couldn’t tell you why I never stopped to ask if he knew where I belonged when I wasn’t with him. Since that job, I started working slightly more at these occasions but now, the only reason that I am invited to these places is him. 

When we started to attend these events together as each other’s dates, it was impossible for me to ignore the fact that people would talk. “Who is she?” “I’ve never even heard of her” “She’s lovely. I’m just surprised” Well, in fact, I too thought I looked lovely but that remark really made me question if I did. As we started to accompany each other to more events, the royalty and the court got used to this commoner being among them and at least to my knowledge, accepted my presence there. I know I didn’t exactly blend in. I was in my early to mid-twenties and didn’t glow with their wealthy fluorescence. I was slightly taller than I am in real life, and carried myself like someone who belonged. But surely, there’s no way I could have looked that different. 

My relationship? It was great. At least that’s what I told everyone. He was the sweetest guy I’ve ever met. So respectful. He always remembered the names of people I was supposed to impress so I wouldn’t have to worry. He always knew what to say at the right time. He had the most charming British accent paired with this floppy hair. Whenever I would get a letter through my apartment’s mailbox, I knew it was from him. How? Well, it was our thing. He would always invite me to these events by sending me a handwritten invitation as his plus one. I knew his handwriting before I knew his favorite color. Romantic, right? Later, I found out through one of his friends that his favorite color was blue. The ink color he always writes with. These letters would always have the time, address, and attire. I mean, shouldn’t I feel great being chosen as his plus one?

At this event, my date and I were sitting at the extremely large dining table in the big room just talking and finishing our dinner. You could run a 10K on that table. Most of the other guests had finished their food already so they had gone into the other rooms to roam. He had to go speak to some important person quickly and had asked if it were alright if I just waited by myself for a bit, and of course it was okay. Beside me were three women, who I was sure my boyfriend had introduced me to before, I just couldn’t remember their names. I’ve never been good with names, always been a face kind of girl. Or maybe it was the champagne. These women were maybe in their thirties, socialites or wives I was assuming. They struck up conversation asking questions about myself. What I do, how long I’ve lived in New York, yada yada. I could tell they were curious but there was something else they’d been anticipating to ask. 

“Uhm… Sweetie?” Yup. There it is. 

“Mhm?” 

“Well.. everybody has been wondering, what even are you two?” I couldn’t help myself. The snort slipped out of me. Then another came. Cackling, almost. I must’ve looked crazy. 

I looked at their slightly frozen faces. Whether from Botox or years of perfecting a socialite expression, I couldn’t tell what they were trying to get at.

Oh. 

They were serious.

Well, was it not obvious?

“I mean… are you together? Or are you just his guest?” Ouch. That one hurt. 

 Earlier that day, my sister (I do not have a sister outside of the dream-world, but I guess this version of me does) had helped me borrow this dress from her at the very last minute. She already had it inside of her closet collecting dust, and I mean, what are sisters for? She would ask me how’s my relationship going and if we’ve ever gone on any “real dates” yet. Real dates? Talk about offensive. She kept on saying how it was weird that we’ve been hanging out for months and having titles for each other, “boyfriend” and “girlfriend”, but we never spend time together outside these occasions. 

“You don’t even have his number, babe” That stung. But, she was right. It’s not like it has never crossed my mind. When it does I try to forget about it. I can think about it another time. 

It’s not like he didn’t love me. Do I sound like someone who’s comforting herself in deluded thoughts? Likely. I told myself he did. He loved me. At least, I knew he loved the version of us everyone else could see. I just felt at times that he only loved me when there were people around. The three stunning socialites or wives advised me about this predicament. Telling me immediately that I should go and talk to him. And so I did. I was ready. Ready to tell him that we need to fix this. What even are we? What is this between us? I went looking for him. Through the large penthouse, floor one there was no sign of him. Floor two, no sign as well. I asked around and no one had seen him anywhere. He had left, without even saying goodbye. 

As I stood in this room alone, the realization hit me. My purpose for even being here left me. The chatter around me seemed to grow louder. Everyone with someone to talk to, a reason to be there. Mine was gone. Looking around the room, there was a couple there around my age. The girlfriend had that twinkle in her eye looking up at her date. It feels familiar, like something real. Did we look like that? I could’ve sworn we did. We were falling in love. Right? But, maybe that was just it. We just looked like it. Just how it looked like he wanted me to be in his life. The invitations, being introduced to people a part of his world, the public spotlight shone on me. But all people did was look, look at us. And maybe the only reason people looked at us was because they were seeing exactly what we taught them to. They too thought we were in love. So there I was, left confused. Just like everyone else would be if they didn’t only look at what was given to them. I confused being in someone’s world with being inside someone’s life. Maybe I’ll blame it on the dream — after all, it’s just a dream.