I dreamed that you apologized to me. Like, who still talks about dreams anymore? Everyone knows they represent either what you want but can’t get, or something about sex, or, really, they’re just the same thing. At this point in our society, talking about your dreams feels like an agenda, like I’m telling you that I’m owed this pleasure and there’s an easy fix. Some people call this passive-aggressiveness, as if I could afford to be directly aggressive at you. Which I did, and you didn’t like. You said something I don’t remember, but I said I want to be not just a fan—and we like the same music so we should be friends. Then you said something else I don’t remember, but I think it meant we will not be friends, and you know I wanted to be more than just friends. Or slightly less than friends, because friends exchange hearts but what’s slightly less than friends exchange body fluids. I thought of the girls you were so nice to and brought backstage and then, to the tour bus and hotels. They were all white girls, blond hair. I stared at you but I couldn’t ask: is it because I was Asian? Because you’re Asian too, and that fact makes it all even sadder than it should. So I cried a little to force you to pat my shoulder and half-heartedly say, there there. That night your tour manager was there too, and we talked about the music you like, which means I like it too, but he had to say he likes it too, making me less special. But most importantly, I realized I don’t want to be friends with your manager. He said being melodramatic for one hour is your job on stage, and mine off it, but what he was too kind to say is the hour has passed. He was so nice. I wish I wanted to be friends with him instead of you. He has a sister who’s an actress. I wondered why he wasn’t as beautiful as his sister. 

Came home—or maybe years later—I started reading theories, like Fanon and Beauvoir, which said people like you had a fetish for an ethnic group to make up for a colonial mentality or internalized racism. But could I have just been not attractive enough? They also said people like me were manipulated by people like you, and it should no longer be a common thing in the industry. But you didn’t want to manipulate me like you did the others. Should I feel bad for the others? Like, I know I should, but they all giggled when they were invited to your tour bus, including the one I befriended and blocked on Instagram, who had an ugly Asian boyfriend who would take her to anime cons and ramen shops. You’re ugly too, and short, but you’re special. Is it what those girls felt at the time, that you’re special? Do they still think you’re special after? Theories don’t explain why people like you are special. Or when they do, they say you’re actually not that special. Which does not solve my problem. To solve my problem I need you to apologize to me—about what, I’m not sure. Maybe to say you’re sorry that you only liked white girls. And when you did like Asian girls, you like them pretty and skinny like a model, and that’s not alright. That you should have liked someone like me too. I’m not sure if you did take advantage of those girls, but people make it sound like as long as the power imbalance exists, there’s something wrong with the relationship, so I’ll have to go with that. I’m just bummed that such apologies won’t come to me. Above all, you should’ve been nicer when you rejected me, because it’s a pure heart I gave you, and you threw it back homerun-style. I know I said no hearts but I was lying. I guess I analyze too much and spend less time on my looks. I wish I had better looks. And I wish I could remember the details of my eight dreams about you apologizing to me in different ways, about different things. Only then could I move on. But before I move on I want to tell you about my dreams. Maybe tell your now-girlfriend too, the actress. I never thought you would have a girlfriend one day, but now that you do, I want to be her friend. I didn’t want to be her brother’s friend but yes, I want to be her friend. She will hear about my dreams and tell me it has been so much for me to bear. All these years, she will say, he should say sorry. Like, oh my god. I feel sorry for you.