MIDNIGHT HAD COME and gone.

Sitting at my desk, I was checking that the subtitles for my next video diary were spelling error-free and matched the spoken pace. Unfortunately, the conversation itself kept distracting me, even though I'd heard it ten times. I always lost myself in Nashwa's voice, the way she constructed sentences, the thoughts in her head.

The laws of online engagement said that content had to be under a minute long, otherwise the modern person's short attention span would fizzle out. But I couldn't choose when to cut the audio; all of it felt important, intimately connected to the sentences before and after.

How could I deprive the Internet of the full exchange? They'd never find out that we'd been sitting on her living room floor, hunched over some very liquid Indian food. They'd be ignorant to the glimmer in Nashwa's dark eyes as she spoke.

NASHWA: People romanticize the relationship, don't they? Artist-muse relationships. But they're not romantic. There's always power asymmetry. I'm thinking of the old painters. Muses of the past were always posing naked and, like, acting sexy but innocent. Madonna-whore. One has to give so much and the other can sit there and absorb it. It's the ultimate giver-taker relationship.

LEAH: But, don't you think, even as you say that, you can't tell which of the artist or the muse is the one giving?

NASHWA: I suppose so.

LEAH: Think just about the modern day. The artist could be giving their creative energy and skilled labor and the muse only basks in it. Or, the muse could be the one working to stay beautiful and inspirational all the time, and the artist only has to feel and record their feelings. All other power dynamics being equal, of course.

NASHWA: You sound like you want to be a muse.

LEAH: Sometimes I do. Sometimes I think the muse gets the all attention, the careful study, the paintings, sonnets, sculptures. The muse smiles and the world spends four-hundred years wondering what about. The artist is renowned, but they're not known. They're not perceived. The artist will never have art dedicated to them, unless it's by another artist—and then what about that second artist?

NASHWA: Damn.

LEAH: Sorry, too self-pitying?

NASHWA: No, it's— spicy. Whoo.

LEAH: [Laughter.]

NASHWA: [Laughter.] Ha ha— Stop laughing. I might choke.

LEAH: I have. [Laughter.] Okay, now I have.

NASHWA: As I was saying, I think my art differs from yours in two ways, ways that make me unable to truly relate. Firstly, I would say musicians—aside from maybe pop musicians, because image has become very, like, entwined with the genre—musicians are physically separate from their art the way painters, illustrators and film-makers are. You, the artist, makes the art, which goes out into the world, away from your body. My art always stays in my body so I am perceived all the time.

NASHWA: Secondly, I feel like I'm also my own muse. There's no-one whose face, features, musculature I pay more attention to than mine. Think of a sculptor, who looks at their muse, and then goes to work on the clay. I am the sculptor, the muse, and the clay. My brain looks at my reflection in the mirror or a recording of my movement and then I go to work on myself to improve it. The whole artistic cycle happens inside me.

LEAH: That sounds painful in a way.

NASHWA: I mean, you're right. It is painful, mentally and physically, especially when the body refuses to cooperate. I think the most traumatized dancers I've ever known are those whose bodies haven't forgiven or forgotten what their minds put them through.

LEAH: Did you... go through any of that?

NASHWA: Not really, thankfully. My body was, um, cooperative. It's a strange word but I do feel that's how it was like. Others said I was built for ballet. Of course I worked hard, but my hard work took me a lot further than other dancers' hard work. They were very jealous.

LEAH: Who wouldn't be jealous of you?

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I had a girl crush.

Now that I knew Nashwa, my past became a series of trajectories in her orbit. Juilliard and the NYCB were, geographically, practically on top of one another. I'd spent the past three years in that dense block of artists, and Nashwa—based on the year she received her apprenticeship—had been in New York even longer.

How many times had we been on the same metro? Waited (i.e. jaywalked) at the same intersection? Crossed each other's paths in Hearst Plaza? How did we never meet in all those years? I could have lived my whole life without meeting her if I hadn't attended a random New Year's Eve party.

From the guest list and some Instagram stalking, I had finally deduced how our social circles overlapped. I had been invited by Wynter, my high school friend that also ended up living in New York. Wynter's roommate was dating a dancer in the NYCB, and the roommate's girlfriend had likely invited a group of fellow ballerinas, including Nashwa.

I kept thinking about the party, trying to figure out if Nashwa had shown any sapphic signs or if she could only ever like me as a friend. I thought our conversations had been natural, the dancing fun and spirited, the kissing—

Amazing.

Because I'd been drunk, I had forgotten to ask for her number. Then when I'd woken up the next day, I was anxious—classic hungover symptom. I'd realized I could have projected some of our chemistry based on my own desires. If Nashwa felt the same, she could reach out to me. But she never did. When we met for coffee, she confirmed that she wanted to focus on her career.

But...

But what if Nashwa could like me?

But what if I was inventing it?

But what if?

I thought we'd shared a charged moment two Tuesdays ago, but based on what? Some general closeness, her faint smile, the length of eye contact, and a slight lean towards me. None of these things were concrete. Anyone could imagine 'evidence' like this.

As a bisexual woman, I never had trouble determining if a man was attracted to me or not. Men were so much easier to read than women. Their baseline behavior, toward a young woman like me, ranged from neutral to friendly. It was the gender divide that society had constructed. Men, so guarded and defensive, would not bare themselves to me unless they wanted me.

But women? Their baseline behavior toward a fellow woman was incredibly open and supportive, regardless of sex or sexuality. Two women friends—hell, two strangers in a nightclub bathroom—could share deep emotions, long and late conversations, clothes, makeup, toiletries, and they could initiate social plans with each other, and touch. Touch in various ways. Kiss even, and it could say nothing at all about attraction or emotion. It stemmed from this community and solidarity we had built around each other. A social treasure, believe me, except for how it phenomenally screwed up my radar.

Nashwa was a red blip perfectly on the line between Good Friend and Something More. There was no functional difference whether she was closeted or actually unattracted to women; either case produced the same reasoning. Since I needed her participation to finish this project, I refused to risk my grade by addressing anything. Uncertainty was high, as were the stakes.

I couldn't even imagine the consequences. If I made things awkward and Nashwa left, then it would be too late to restart the project with anyone else. We had reservations in the Juilliard rehearsal rooms beginning next week. I wasn't paying her, she hadn't signed any contract. If she left, all of my recordings and notes (half of my grade) would become defunct. I could say bye-bye to Weissman's recommendation and grad school at Juilliard.

I just had to live with my curiosity. Besides, friendship was not inferior to romance. Friendship was an equally powerful, intimate, transformative relationship—anything else was a lie propagated by heteronormative societies.

And wasn't it already a blessing to have someone like Nashwa Fakhoury as a friend?

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A touring light installation had set up in Central Park.

The artist had manipulated neon light tubes into a variety of abstract and familiar shapes—skyscrapers, birds, trees—and placed them on the sides of the pathways leading from Cherry Hill to Bethesda Terrace. I loved visual art. I loved Central Park and had been meaning to go again now that it was getting warmer. So, I visited the installation the very first night it opened.

Then when Nashwa messaged me about going after my orchestra rehearsal on Wednesday, I wiped all memory of the lights from my brain. What light installation? I replied that it looked cool and I'd be totally down.

I met her at eight-thirty by the entrance on West 65th Street. My rehearsal had finished only five minutes ago, so I still carried my violin on my back, my tote bag on my shoulder.

Nashwa was already standing on the park side of the intersection, and she waved when she saw me.

She was wearing a long black dress, sneakers, and a pink sweater that wrapped around her torso. Her hair was slicked into the usual ballet bun. The pedestrian light turned green.

"Hi," I called. Once I'd crossed the road, Nashwa and I hugged. "I love this sweater. Very ballet core."

"Thank you. And thanks for coming with me."

As we walked deeper into the park, we didn't speak. I realized this was one of three times we'd met without filming the encounter. Nashwa seemed more comfortable to be silent in the absence of the camera.

She offered me one of her earbuds as she pulled out her phone, with a warning. "I know my music taste is bad. But I stand by it, so try not to be a music major for the next ten minutes."

Usually, I believed I could learn a lot about another person by their music taste. Nashwa really disproved that theory. As we meandered through Central Park, her music playlist meandered through K-Pop, Doja Cat, the Hamilton soundtrack, Bo Burnham and hip-hop remixes of classic Disney songs. I supposed I did learn one thing: she didn't take music too seriously.

At the installation, most of my enjoyment came from seeing Nashwa react to the statues. We each took a pamphlet, snapped a few photos for each other, discussed what the more abstract blobs and twists were meant to represent, and chose favorites. My favorite light statue was a lotus unfurling, and Nashwa's was one of the blobs—in an electric cobalt blue—because she'd never seen neon lights in that color.

On our way out of the park, we walked through the Mall, a long avenue lined with trees and benches. The vintage lampposts were illuminated, orbs of light floating in the darkness. It was nearly nine-thirty, but the park was still quite active because of the installation. There were still young couples on the benches, families strolling, vendors selling postcards and magnets, buskers.

"I actually used to do this," I told Nashwa, as we passed a lone man in a blue scarf, playing classical guitar. His guitar case lay open on the ground, containing a smattering of coins and notes.

"What? Busk?"

"Yep. Right there." I pointed up ahead to the tall stone bandshell, rising in the distance. "That was my spot."

"What?" Her face had lit up, overcome with a joyous fascination. She passed through a bright spot of lamplight and her face briefly flashed bronze. "You used to. Why did you stop?"

"It wasn't conscious. I really loved it. Good test for my memorization and performance skills," I said. "I just got busy with classes and actual music. Then one day I realized it had been two years since I'd busked."

"Actual music?"

"Student Orchestra, seminars abroad in the summers, working on compositions and arrangements, building a portfolio of recitals. Busking in Central Park adds zero value to a CV, unless you go viral, which I never did."

"I went through a similar thing, actually. I was fourteen. It happens when you decide to make a career out of your art. Some part of yourself—some emotional, spontaneous part—has to die so that you can become a professional."

I shot her a look, eyebrows upturned above a soft smile.

"What?"

"You just express things so much better than I do."

Nashwa scoffed. "I do not."

Yes, she did. She often described things that I didn't know I felt, until I heard her articulate them. Every other person I'd met was a stone—possibly even a beautiful gemstone, or a plain gray pebble, or a jagged rock—and then suddenly, I'd discovered a mirror.

We kept walking. Once we arrived at the bandshell, Nashwa turned and stared up at the structure. Her eyes roamed over the high columns, arched ceiling and octagonal reliefs in the stone. She sighed. "You should busk again."

"I really should."

She glanced at the violin on my back. "I meant now."

"Oh." I scanned the area. First rule of busking: do not encroach on someone else's territory. There were no other musicians in earshot, so I swung my violin case to the ground. "Okay. Sure." As I set up, I said, "Look at us. You're being such a positive influence."

She gave her familiar half-smirk. "I try."

I positioned my violin underneath my chin, flicking through my mental repertoire. Nashwa wandered gracefully away from the bandshell and took a seat on the bench opposite from me. She crossed one leg over the other and leaned back.

I chose a piece and started to play.

The notes began quietly, pizzicato specks that floated up and around in the air like dust motes. The bulk of the song was rich and tender, lots of variable bow speed and vibrato.

I looked at Nashwa in the beginning, but as the music continued I couldn't meet her gaze anymore. That nervousness she'd felt on the first day of our collaboration had infected me.

When composing, I had tried to infuse as much emotion into this piece without saturating it. It was meant to be impulsive, but still restrained. The moments of tension between technical precision and expression—a note cut off, a rush to catch up to the beat, a scream dropping into silence—made the magic. There was longing, yearning, wondering. There was acceptance and gratitude. There was love.

The last note died out, and I looked over to Nashwa and smiled shakily.

She rose and walked back to me. "What was that song?"

"It's another original."

"Does it have a name?"

"No." I dropped my head, busying myself with packing my violin back into its case. I took my time with this, noting the trembling of my hands.

"Did anything inspire this one?" Nashwa asked. I pretended to not hear. "Leah?"

"It's... personal," I muttered quickly.

"Well, it's so good, I almost wish we had chosen this one to dance to."

"We couldn't have chosen this one," I explained, "since it didn't exist back then."

"So it's recent?"

"Yes." I zipped up the case and shouldered it on my back, bracing for further inspection. Thankfully, Nashwa didn't ask anything else.

"It really is very good. I'd replay it hundreds of times if this was on Spotify."

"I can send you the MP3 if you want."

"Would you?" I nodded. "Oh, you're a saint. I actually love it."

We emerged from the same park entrance as earlier. We were headed in different directions; me across the road toward the dormitories and Nashwa down the road to the subway station. From our Tuesday commutes to her apartment, I knew that she wouldn't be home before eleven, while I was only a five minute walk away. I thought to offer her a place to crash, but decided it would be an overstep of our friendship.

Calm, weary silence hung between us while I waited for the pedestrian light. My day had been long. My energy spike during the art installation had flattened. I knew from the orange traffic light that the pedestrian light was about to turn green.

I turned and said, "Um, that piece was called 'Nashwa'."

Then—green light—I stepped off the curb and speedily walked away, not wanting to stick around and see her reaction.

I was such a fool. Always the artist, and never the muse. At times, I wished I wouldn't feel so deeply. I wished I could keep things inside better, plug the outpourings, but then I wouldn't have any music to show for it.

"Leah!" I heard Nashwa's voice and footsteps behind me. "Slow down!"

My boots hit the pavement on the other side of the road. Nashwa's hand caught my shoulder and pulled me around to face her. Some of her thick, frizzy hair had finally broken free of its hairspray prison.

She wore an odd expression on her face, stuck between a smile and a grimace. "You got it totally wrong," she said. Ouch. "I don't express things better than you, actually I don't express things well at all."

Was this the fallout? What if she quit now?

"I'm sorry."

A flash of fire in her eyes. "Don't apologize."

Her hand found mine, our fingers twining tight.

But what if?

She took another step closer. Gently cupped my cheek—

—and pulled our lips together.