Page 89 of Shapes of Love
Is that my song?
“Summer Blues.” I wrote that.
Shock slams into me. I turn to Mia, if only to make sure I’m not having some sort of auditory hallucination. She and Shirley pounce on me, and a slew of cameras close in on me against a backdrop of applause.
“You won! You won!” Shirley yells, their voice piercing through the veil in my mind.
“Sasha, you have to go. You have to get the award,” Mia urges, guiding me forward and pushing me toward the stage. I make my way up the stairs, careful not to trip over the hem of my dress as I accept my award and hug everyone.
Everything is blurry, from the wall of faces in front of me to the glare of the lights overhead. The weight of the award feels strange in my hands, its polished gold surface cold against my fingertips.
“Thank you. Honestly, I don’t even know what to say. To my team, my amazing producer, Shirley, thank you forseeing me.Reallyseeing me, and giving me the space to create songs like this one, the ones on my album, or the one I sang tonight. Shit, ‘Summer Blues’ won a Grammy. I’m speechless, which sort of defeats the purpose of me giving a speech, but…”
I try to collect my thoughts and remember my plan, but all I can focus on are the two people who should be sitting at my table, sharing this moment with me.
“There’s been a lot of speculation about this song. A lot of people think I wrote it about a guy I dated. I didn’t.” My voice sobers. Silence descends, and even though I can’t see them, I feel a thousand eyes on me. A flicker of hesitation swims through me, but I shove it down. “I never said anything, because I felt a lot of pressure to try to fit into this idea people had of me. Everyone thinks my music revolves around a guy. Everyone thinks I’m straight. Both are lies.”
A collective gasp flies around the room. I catch a glimpse of Mia, jumping to her feet out of sheer surprise. When I clutch the mic tighter, my dress shifts, and I’m pretty sure there’s a spoon sticking out of my pocket, but I can’t stop it, the way my heart longs to crack open.
“Sassy, the version of me you’ve been sold, is a straight girl who likes to write about her love life. But the real me, the real Sasha, has always been an aromantic, asexual girl who started writing music about her favorite fictional stories and posting it on the internet. I want to believe this award is for the latter, and not the former.”
Murmurs fly around the room, and people pull out their phones to record. A cameraperson scoots closer and tightensthe angle on my face, but all I feel is the weight of the Grammy in my hands. I think back to myself from two years ago. I believe that girl would be proud if she saw how far I’ve come, and how far I still have to go.
“I let some people convince me that my career would be done before it even began if I came out, so I agreed to a PR relationship with someone. I’m not proud of what I did, but I was scared. When I almost came out because of an accidental like, there were a lot of people who judged me or were disappointed that my music wasn’t about some guy they imagined in their heads. Someone even commented that they’d rather die than be like me, because they didn’t want to be alone forever. I don’t think being aromantic or asexual means being alone, but I think society often forces us to be.”
My voice quivers when I make eye contact with the audience, but I plow on. This is my truth, the shape of my love, and it deserves to be heard, too.
“I let those comments get to me. I let myself believe that things would be easier if I just played along and became the version of myself everyone wanted me to be. I guess part of me wanted to be her, too. Not because I don’t want to be aroace. I love it. In many ways, I consider it a blessing. But it was easier to pretend—adulthood revolves so tightly around the idea of falling in love and finding ‘the one,’ that it looks like there’s no space for people like me, or others who experience love in a nontraditional way. Sometimes it’s easier to fit into society’s standards, to fit into the monolith, than to punch cracks in it. But I feel like I have to say something now. Because people I care about got swept into my lie, andthey got outed in the worst possible way. The only thing they did was shatter the illusion you had of me. Or, well, of Sassy. But she’s gone now. I killed her.”
A gasp travels through the auditorium. I’m pretty sure I’m out of time, but no one is forcing me away from the mic.
“If you hate me after this, if you feel like I lied to you, I understand. And if you’re no longer interested in my music because it doesn’t revolve around my personal life… well, I suggest touching grass.”
Laughter ripples through the audience. My shoulders sag with relief. I don’t know what will happen after this, but I’m proud of myself. I’d rather go down because I told the truth than rise to the top because of a lie.
“I’m still going to write about my favorite things, if you let me, but from now on, I’ll be honest about it. I’d rather y’all see the real me, Sasha, than lose her in the process. This award is for her, and for everyone who’s ever been made to feel broken or alone, just because they don’t conform to society’s bullshit. Oh, fuck, I can’t swear on this thing, can I? Oh, shit, ummm… Thank you for the Grammy. I don’t have time to thank everyone. To my family; my moms; my sister, Sonia; my producer, Shirley; my best friend, Mia. To Kai and Asher. Thank you for being my people. To my fans, thank you for your support. You make me want to be a better person. Anyway, that’s all. Bye!”
I scurry away with my award amid a whirlwind of emotions. When I return to my seat, I expect Mia and Shirley to scold me for my recklessness, but Mia just curls her arms around me, and Shirley holds their hand up for a high five.
“I’m proud of you,” they say.
“You’re crazy,” Mia adds.
My body shakes with adrenaline, but I’m grinning. I can’t believe I just did that.
The moment I sit down, my phone buzzes with messages from my moms, Sonia, my cousin, and the rest of my family as well as Mia’s. There’s even a message from Kai’s grandpa, who sends me a clapping Minion emoji. Kai and Asher have texted me, too, but I decide to open them later, when I’m not surrounded by cameras.
No one knew I was going to do this, and I’m glad I got to do it alone. It’s like Rosa said. Home is nothing but yourself. But unlike a few months ago, my house is no longer empty. I’m there—Sasha, not Sassy—and for the first time, I’m home. I’m home, and I decide who I let inside.
I swipe over to my social media, torn between wanting to thank my fans and see what they’re saying. But before I can click on any reaction posts, my name echoes through the auditorium again, drowned out by applause.
“Sasha, you won,” Mia screams. “You won Best Pop Vocal Album!”
What? When I look around, there are people clapping, and my name is written in bold letters on the giant screen. Oh, shit. I did not expect to win in this category.
“What do I do?” I say idiotically, probably because my brain has stopped receiving the oxygen it so clearly needs.
Shirley and Mia laugh.
