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You’re a countess and you don’t know what the word means. You’re a countess, and you feel as though you might tear apart your body from the inside, break out of it and become something new, something less easy to control.
You’re a countess, and you use every tool you have, take your tragedy and use it as armor so that nobody can touch you unless you let them. You think that maybe this is what it means to be safe.
*
He is a boy, or at least, that’s what he tells you at the time. His smile could light up the depths of hell, or of purgatory; which is to say, when you sit in the walls of your cage his smile brings the outside in.
But he’s not a boy, and perhaps you are not a countess after all.
The thought makes you want to go into the liquor cabinet and smash every bottle, or maybe just drink until you no longer care why the world spins the way it does.
*
When she tells you the truth, your heart shatter like a stained glass window in a Catholic church when boys go to play. You close your eyes and picture it: the night, the stars, the joyful sound of rocks smashing through glass.
What you say: “You lied to me.”
Her response: “I did.”
It’s not the lie that bothers you, it’s the way that she holds her body like a man, the power contained in a few items of clothing. It’s what Sir Toby would say, what Maria would say, what the world would say. It’s the fact that yesterday, Malvolio approached you and sneered that Cesario looked like a girl.
It’s the fact that you didn’t mind that much that he was right.
You sit back on your chair. “What is your name?” The words wend their way through the room like snakes.
“Viola.”
What you say: “Love transcends both form and stature.”
What you mean: “You can be Viola or Cesario, or both, or neither. You can throw stones or sit at my feet and let me brush your hair. You don’t have to be good. You don’t have to be kind. You just have to be.
She leaves the room without speaking, and a rock forms in your chest.
*
When she returns, you have your arguments ready.
“You love the Duke.” It’s not a question, but she answers.
“Yes.”
“He won’t have you,” you tell her. “Even if he does, it won’t be you. He’ll love the woman but not the man.”
Viola turns away. “And which do you want, my lady?”
“Whichever part is real,” you tell her. “In this room, you can be who you want to.”
She gets up from her chair, walks across the room, and kisses you. Her hands are smooth and soft. It feels real, but you know she’s a good liar.
You decide not to care as you kiss her back.
*
If she keeps pretending, you could marry her. There’d be a priest, and Sir Toby would be furious that you’d ignored his choice but ultimately too drunk to care. You could love her, and nobody would ever know the truth.
If she stops pretending, she’ll marry him. There’ll be a priest, and music, and everyone will think your tears are for Orsino, as if you’ve hidden a love for him this whole time.
You can’t seem to ask her for either.
You know that she loves him, but sometimes when she touches your face with the palm of her hand, you wonder if she could love you too. You decide you’re willing to share. Orsino may have Cesario’s heart, but you think you may have Viola’s.
(You ignore the uneasy feeling in your gut that it may not be that simple.)
*
In one timeline, you will kiss her under the stars and it will kindle the feeling of a fire burning brightly inside of you. Sometimes she will dress like a man and sometimes, at nighttime in the safety of your own room, she will dress like a woman. You will love her with all of the grace and beauty of the moon, lighting up the world even when some things have to be kept in the dark.
In the other, you will kiss her at the break of day and beg her not to leave as light begins to seep into the sky. She will dress as a man, or maybe as a woman, and she will leave you. You will love her with all the burning brightness of the sun, and it will never be enough. You will forgive her. After all, some secrets can only be told when it’s too dark to look each other in the eye.
You’re not sure which timeline you’re on, or whether maybe they’re the same, but she’s taken you by the hands in the garden under the pale light of the moon, and for the first time in your life, you wonder if this is enough.