by Charly Murmann
Did I fall for you? I think I may have loved you. Maybe I did. Or maybe I loved the idea of falling in love with you. I fell in love with you. I loved your name: not common, chosen, and mysterious—Attic. I never asked you how you chose it; it seemed too personal and intimate. In the queer/trans/non-binary community, people often change their names, sometimes more than once. Sometimes we forget that people change their names for other reasons, needs, or desires.
One of my friends explained that she did not change her name because white/Western people could not pronounce it correctly. She wanted to choose her own name. The name her parents gave her did not feel like her name; she had just got used to living with it. She wants to embrace her name. Her chosen name. Now she embraces herself. Now, only now.
I was wondering about the relationship between your name, your house and your home, and your name and your body. You are a digital artist. You created a video game called My Yard. Did you create your name in the same way that you created your video game? We talked about it. I had many questions. How do you convey your unique queer and trans experiences in a digital world where millions of people can interact with your game? Are they also interacting with your past lives? How do you discuss your relationship growth and vulnerabilities with players who may not have your emotional maturity? Did you ask everyone involved in your game for permission and consent for everything they did and said? Where are you drawing the line between autobiographical and fictional content? Not to mention the fact that I have no interest in video games. However, I can think of a significant number of people I have dated who have been into them. More than a handful, in fact. I find it extremely hot when people are going into explanation of subjects I have no knowledge of. I was fascinated by your game, with no rules and nothing to win or lose. It was like an adventure book where you can choose where the story goes. My Yard was about queerness and transness, coming out, life in a rough part of Vancouver in Canada, art school, and partners. I have always wanted to visit Canada. The pandemic happened just as I was planning to visit my friend Christelle, who had been living there for a year. I wanted to walk down the same streets as you, listening to gigs in your favourite spots, discovering coffeeshops and eating your favourite cakes. I never asked you what your favourite cake was. I just melted into your eyes and forgot about my love for sugar. I love sugar so much! But instead, we ate at a Nepalese takeaway in the town where you live. Do you still live there? I always remember your smile when I go back to that restaurant. I do not want to meet you there. It would be strange and uncomfortable if you did not recognise me. I will recognise you though. I always remember people’s faces, whether I see them once or a hundred times. I loved the way you mentioned your partners; your choice of words was precise and thoughtful. Your nesting-partner, who lives with you and helps you create a home and a sense of belonging, as well as working alongside you. Then there is your long-distance partner, a musician and sound designer for video games, including yours, who lived on another continent. You were deeply committed to Skyping with them every Sunday and learning their mother tongue. We talked about polyamory and non-hierarchical relationships. But what about emotional hierarchies? What about the time you spend together?
I often thought: Is there room for someone else? I was not sure if I wanted a defined space. I accepted the space and the lack of commitment that came with not being a primary partner. I was not a secondary partner with Dylan—not officially, at least—and I was not a partner at all with you. We had just started dating. I felt I was able to connect and form a bond. With no power attached. No pressure attached. It was just the feelings that mattered. Some days, I wanted more. What if I am in hospital or unwell? Will none of these people come? As the French say, “On ne peut pas avoir le beurre et l’argent du beurre,” and I want the butter, the money from the butter, and the person who makes the butter. I also remember from my own experience that “real” partners rarely show up when things get tough. By that I mean partners who are present—monogamous or not—rarely show up when things get tough. Maya showed up. Always. Maya always showed up. And newly my actual partner. A movement of choosing partners who are more suitable for myself is activated, now.
I have friends who provide me with emotional support. I have friends who look after me when they are around. Those who have the capacity to do so. Not everyone has the same amount of “spoons,” or the physical or emotional capacity to show up. It’s OK. I’m not sure if it’s OK, but it is alright. I deal with it. My mind knows that people have limits, and that these limits protect them from others and themselves. Like everyone else, they are trying to stay mentally and physically alive.
We talked about our artistic practices and how we managed boundaries with our parents. We discussed how being vulnerable and raw in our work was powerful. I loved that we were both artists. Our conversations were relevant. I loved walking with you in silence and listening to the owls singing. I loved how introverted you were and it made me feel more extroverted than I am. I loved the balance of our connection.
We quickly developed trust. It was not my style or my rules; it just happened. I was afraid of losing control. To let my scared heart fall in love again! That would make my friends smile, especially Thomas, who did not believe me years ago when I said that I would not fail to fall in love again. It is not a gain. It is not my game. I am over. I am exhausted. I’m done. I’ve had enough of love. I thought of my friend Mathias, who always puts his heart on the line and moves countries without a second thought. He was free. I was stuck in my head, analysing everything. I do not take risks for human connections. There is enough risk just in being. I remember the day you told me you felt safe with me. I felt the same. It was precious. It is rare to feel it, even over time, in being in a relationship. Sometimes, I think of you and miss you. I’m not sure if I miss you as a person or the special way you made me feel.
I remember how I was never sure how to read you or the situations we found ourselves in. From our first date to the first time we had sex, and everything in between. I texted you after our first date. I was a bit shy, so I took advantage of technology. I really wanted to kiss you. By our second date, you had made it clear that you wanted to kiss me. I waited eight hours for you to touch my shoulder and back long enough for me to think, “Is that a yes? Go for it, Charly!” But I was not sure; maybe you had changed your mind? At the end of the afternoon, when the sun was setting and the air was crisp, we went into a pub and sat on the old-fashioned, plant-patterned benches. We kissed. Your lips and skin were incredibly soft, like silk. I do not even like silk, but the sensual excitement of the experience softened me. After opening our blue eyes, we smiled. At the station, you took my hand. We held hands. I felt like a teenager again, in a good way. I felt special. Perhaps I just wanted to feel special.
Have you heard the story about people using tea to talk about sex and consent? Yes, I’m talking to you, the reader! It’s a really good story. The idea is that you suggest a cup of tea to someone. “Would you like a cup of tea?” “Yes, why not? I know a great place; let’s go there.” Thirty minutes later, you sit down and ask, “What kind of tea would you like?” “I’m not in the mood for tea today, but maybe another time. Let’s have a drink instead.” In this story, you will never force anyone to drink tea!
The first time we had sex was a bit tricky and carefully managed. If I remember correctly, I made you brunch. We talked about mushrooms. We were both shy. I made the first move. It is complicated when you are AFAB (assigned female at birth)—your history with consent is quite complex. I can only talk about my experience to reframe it. I am always afraid of being pushy or not checking consent enough. Sometimes I’m always asking, “Can I touch your hand?” Even if I have touched your hand a thousand times before. We had sex; it was very gentle, with lots of consent checks. Attic texted me and did some emotional labour. I was so relieved that someone else was doing the emotional labour! A huge green flag lit up in my brain like winning at casino roulette: Bling! Bling! Bling! My brain is dancing. We talked about sex and agreed that we were both comfortable with each other. You said: “You can just lead, go for it!” “With pleasure—I love it! I love being in charge, it is hot and wanted only in the bedroom!”
Sex became more fluid, like a good swimmer in a lake. Bodies touched each other, following the rhythms of our body parts and the moaning of our desires to follow. We would send each other half-naked pictures of ourselves, as well as seeing each other’s desirable bodies in person, for sex. Sometimes we wore similar clothes with the same patterns and black-and-white stripes. I loved the attention you gave to choosing your underwear—soft and lacy. I remember how it felt on my skin to touch your dark purple, semi-transparent shorts. You had one of my favourite haircuts: one side shaved and the other with long black hair. Your eyes were the colour of ice. I melted and felt sorry for myself.
I remember when I had no power in my flat for three days and four nights. We had a date planned. I really wanted to see you, so I did not cancel. We had to plan ahead as we did not live in the same city. We both had busy lives. We went out for some amazing Lebanese food just over the ridge in Hyde Park Corner. Then we walked through the woods to my flat. I lit all the candles in my bedroom; it looked cheesy, but it was the only way to get any light. The toilet situation, where you could not flush, was not ideal. I liked it though; it was quite real and raw. That is what people get when they date me: sharp, raw reality, which is pretty far from romance. Fuck romance. We had sex. I wondered what you were doing. It was amazing, and I wanted to do the same to other people. That night, you used the edging technique. Basically, it is when you stop for two or three seconds when someone is about to come and then start again. The more often you use this technique, the more intense the orgasm will be. That is what happened that night, and you deserve lots of stickers for it! You also looked into my eyes intensely. I felt intimacy. Intimacy is not usually my thing, especially when it comes to sex. However, we felt deeply connected through our bodies and our flesh.
In the morning, I bought us an oat latte and a peppermint tea. You went home, while I went back to my life and sorted out the power. After that, I am not sure if we saw each other once, twice, three times or more. All I know is that we texted each other and exchanged pictures of landscapes. I wrote back. You did not reply. I hoped you were all right. I do not know if you owe me anything. Maybe you do. You ghosted me. You just disappeared. I was sad. I waited.
Slowly, you faded from my memory.
It was a shame, as there was a special connection between us.
You had a lot on your plate.
I wanted to believe in magic.
You left.
But I am rational.
I will never see you again.
I never saw your shadow again.