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MidReal Story
The Truth About My Girl
Scenario:When I first started dating Emmy, I thought she was perfect. Sweet, caring, and easy to be around. But over time, her mask slipped.
A year into our relationship, and she’s turned into someone I barely recognize. Arrogant, critical, and always reminding me how her ex did everything better. Every little thing I do feels like a mistake.
Tonight is no different. I’m late picking her up after her girls’ night, thanks to the traffic. The moment I see her, she’s already scowling.
“Seriously? My ex would’ve been here early—and he wouldn’t be driving a crap car like this!”
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Jamie Bennett
boyfriend, relationships with Emmy and friends, average build, brown hair, conflicted and patient
Emmy Knight
girlfriend, relationship with Jamie and friends, slender with blonde hair, initially sweet but now critical
Natalia Hayes
mutual friend of Jamie and Emmy, supportive of Jamie
It’s been a few months since Emmy and I started going out.
At first, she was really sweet.
But the more we hang out, the more she likes to criticize me.
I try to be patient and not let it get to me, but it’s getting harder and harder.
"Jamie, you’re not holding my hand right. You used to do it better."
We were walking home from a restaurant where we had dinner and she suddenly said that out of the blue.
I didn’t even realize I was holding her hand differently.
"What’s wrong with how I’m holding your hand?"
I asked her.
"It just doesn’t feel as good as it used to. Can’t you just put your palm up against mine and interlace our fingers like you used to?"
She demonstrated with her hands.
"Isn’t that just a normal way to hold hands?"
"Yeah, but I thought you wanted me to hold your hand like this. So I’ve been doing it."
I shifted my hand in hers the way she showed me.
She held my hand in front of us and examined it.
Our fingers interlaced mechanically, like two separate entities stuck together, rather than a single unit.
"Like this?"
I asked.
She nodded.
"Yes, that’s right. Now squeeze."
I squeezed her hand with mine.
"Too hard," she said.
She let go of my hand and we continued walking under the streetlights.
Her face was half-illuminated, half in shadow, like a crescent moon.
"You need to squeeze gently. Not too hard, not too soft. Just right in the middle."
She took my hand again and demonstrated by squeezing it gently.
Her fingers were long and slender, but they were surprisingly strong when she squeezed my hand.
She dropped my hand again after a few seconds and we walked on in silence for a while.
Then she started talking again.
"Jamie, you’re not holding my hand right. You used to do it better."
We were walking home from a restaurant where we had dinner and she suddenly said that out of the blue.
I didn’t even realize I was holding her hand differently.
"What’s wrong with how I’m holding your hand?"
I asked her. "It just doesn’t feel as good as it used to. Can’t you just put your palm up against mine and interlace our fingers like you used to?"
She demonstrated with her hands.
"Isn’t that just a normal way to hold hands?"
"Yeah, but I thought you wanted me to hold your hand like this. So I’ve been doing it."
I shifted my hand in hers the way she showed me.
She held my hand in front of us and examined it.
Our fingers interlaced mechanically, like two separate entities stuck together, rather than a single unit.
"Like this?"
I asked.
She nodded.
"Yes, that’s right. Now squeeze."
I squeezed her hand with mine.
"Too hard," she said softly, almost to herself as much as to me.
She let go of my hand and we continued walking under the streetlights for a while before speaking again.
Her face was half-illuminated, half in shadow, like a crescent moon.
"Jamie, when you squeeze my hand, you should use all your fingers. Not just your thumb and forefinger."
I halted mid-stride on the dimly lit sidewalk, my hand still locked in hers.
She stumbled slightly at my sudden stop and turned to face me, her eyebrows furrowed in irritation.
The streetlight was behind her, casting most of her face in shadow.
The little light there was highlighted the sharp angles of her cheekbones.
Her mouth opened, no doubt to tell me about something else I was doing wrong.
Before she could speak, I tugged her closer until our bodies were inches apart.
Her eyes widened in surprise—maybe the first genuine emotion I’d seen from her all night.
The familiar scent of her perfume wafted up into my nose.
"Emmy, why does it feel like you’re always finding faults in me lately?"
She hesitated, her eyes searching mine as if looking for something she couldn't quite name.
"I guess... I'm scared you're slipping away, and I don't know how to stop it."