The Sun Is Also a Star(39)

A small breeze rustles the leaves around us. It’s colder now than it’s been all day.

“Because it’s true. We’re not meant to be, Daniel. I’m an undocumented immigrant. I’m being deported. Today is my last day in America. Tomorrow I’ll be gone.”

Maybe there’s another way to interpret her words. My brain picks out the most important ones and rearranges them, hoping for a different meaning. I even try to compose a quick poem, but the words won’t cooperate. They just sit there, too heavy for me to pick up.



Last.

Undocumented.

America.

Gone.





ORDINARILY SOMETHING like this—fighting in public—would embarrass me, but I barely even notice anyone except Daniel. If I’m honest with myself, it’s been like this all day.

He presses his forehead into his hands and his hair forms a curtain around his face. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say or do now. I want to take the words back. I want to keep pretending. It’s my fault that things went so far. I should’ve told him from the beginning, but I didn’t think we’d get to this point. I didn’t think I would feel this much.





“I POSTPONED MY APPOINTMENT because of you.” My voice is so quiet that I don’t know if I mean for her to hear me, but she does.

Her eyes widen. She starts to say three different things before settling on: “Wait. This is my fault?”

I’m definitely accusing her of something. I’m not sure what. A bike courier hops onto the sidewalk a little too close to us. Someone yells at him to use the street. I want to yell at him too. Follow the rules, I want to say.

“You could’ve warned me,” I say. “You could’ve told me you were leaving.”

“I did warn you,” she says, defensive now.

“Not enough. You didn’t say you’d be living in another country in less than twenty-four hours.”

“I didn’t know that we’d—”

I interrupt her. “You knew when we met what was going on with you.”

“It wasn’t your business then.”

“And it is now?” Even though the situation is hopeless, just hearing her say it’s my business now gives me some hope.



“I tried to warn you,” she insists again.

“Not hard enough. Here’s how you do it. You open your mouth and you say the truth. None of this crap about not believing in love and poetry. ‘Daniel, I’m leaving,’ you say. ‘Daniel, don’t fall in love with me,’ you say.”

“I did say those things.” She’s not yelling, but she’s not being quiet either.

A very fashionable toddler in a peacoat gives us wide eyes and tugs on her father’s hand. A tyranny of tourists (complete with guidebooks) checks us out like we’re on display.

I lower my voice. “Yes, but I didn’t think you meant them.”

“Whose fault is that?” she demands.

I don’t have anything to say to that, and we just stare at each other.

“You can’t really be falling for me,” she says, quieter now. Her voice is somewhere between distress and disbelief.

Again I don’t have anything to say. Even I’m surprised by how much I’ve been feeling for her all day. The thing about falling is you don’t have any control on your way down.

I try to calm the air between us. “Why can’t I be falling for you?” I ask.

She tugs hard on the straps of her backpack. “Because that’s stupid. I told you not to—”

And now I’ve had enough. My heart’s been on my sleeve all day, and it’s pretty bruised up now.

“Just great. You don’t feel anything? Was I kissing myself back there?”



“You think a few kisses mean forever?”

“I think those kisses did.”

She closes her eyes. When she opens them again, I think I see pity there. “Daniel—” she begins.

I cut her off. I don’t want pity. “No. Whatever. I don’t want to hear it. I get it. You don’t feel the same. You’re leaving. Have a nice life.”

I take all of two steps before she says, “You’re just like my father.”

“I don’t even know your father,” I say while putting my jacket on. It feels tighter somehow.

She folds her arms across her chest. “Doesn’t matter. You’re just like him. Selfish.”

“I am not.” Now I’m defensive.

“Yes you are. You think the entire world revolves around you. Your feelings. Your dreams.”

I throw my hands up. “There is nothing wrong with having dreams. I may be a stupid dreamer, but at least I have them.”

“Why is that a virtue?” she demands. “All you dreamer types think the universe exists just for you and your passion.”

“Better than not having any at all.”

She narrows her eyes at me, ready to debate. “Really? Why?”

I can’t believe I have to explain this. “That’s what we’re put on earth to do.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “We’re put here to evolve and survive. That’s it.”