muse, musa,

"Are you going to write about me?"

"Every writer needs a muse."

"So I'm your muse?"

"I didn't say that."

"You implied it."

"...Maybe."

"Well, in that case, I ought to kiss the ground you walk on."

"You really shouldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because if one of us is going to kiss the ground the other walks on, it's probably going to be me."

"That's an alarming thing to admit."

"I know."

"So..."

"So."

"Hello, nama saya Milo."

"No."

"No?"

"Try again."

"...Hello, nama saya Amirah."

"There you are."

It is a strange thing, being placed on a pedestal.

People often assume that admiration feels like the highest form of affection, but sometimes it feels like standing very still while someone paints a portrait of you. Beautiful, perhaps. Flattering, even. But also terrifying, because once the painting is finished, you are expected to remain that way.

I have always found it easier to admire than to be admired.

Sometimes I wonder, if I could peel away every layer that has been given to me, every name, every achievement, every role, every version of myself that I have carefully built, what would actually remain?

Maybe it would not be Milo. Perhaps it wouldn't even be Amirah.

Maybe it is a secret third thing. Something without a name yet.  Let's keep it that way.