Page 41 of Tilly in Technicolor
I shrug. “I know you don’t particularly care for me, so why bother you with details?”
“Don’t… what? What makes you say that?” She leans toward me, and a gentle breeze whispers through her hair, the soft and sweet smell of her surrounding me.
I shrug again, my eyes retreating to the safety of those three damn freckles on her cheek. “You regularly get frustrated when we talk and end up storming off. And you always stare and frown at me when I’m taking photos or working on edits or drafting up a post. You’ve made it clear you find my habits rather intolerable.”
Tilly scrambles up onto her knees, shifting so we’re at eye level again. I get stuck on those eyes of hers.
“Ollie. No. That’s not it at all.”
“Then it’s my personality that elicits such blatant dislike?”
“Oh my God,no.And stop talking like a historical romance hero. It’s making my brain fuzzy.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
Tilly blows out a breath, scrubbing the heels of her palms against her eyes. “Fine,” she says at last, throwing her hands up. “I’ll admit it. I’m kind of…jealousof you.”
I blink rapidly at her. “Jealous ofme? What the devil for?”
“Because you’re perfect! You’re annoyingly good at the thing you love to do. You don’t flounder or second-guess yourself or even think twice about stopping in the middle of the freaking road to take a picture of a puddle because you’re that dedicated to what you do. And you know how to do it. I don’t have that. I don’t know what I’m doing. Ever. And even when Iamdoing something, I feel like I’m doing it totally and completely wrong and I’m letting everyone down.”
I pause for a moment, processing what she’s said. “Tilly, those things… that’s hyperfocus… It’s not the same as perfection.”
Far from it. It’s this impulse. This absolute need to analyze color. Play with pictures. Share it with others in the only way I seem able to share anything with anyone.
“Well I didn’tknowthat.”
“Knowing that I’m autistic and hyperfocusing would have changed how much you disliked me?”
“Yes! Wait, no. That’s not what I mean. It’s…”
“What?” I prompt, nudging her with my knee. She looks down at my leg and smiles.
“It means that you get it.”
“Get what?”
Tilly chews on her lips for a moment before they stretch into that smile that seems her default setting. “Get the struggles of navigating a world not designed for you. Get the confusion and frustration and achy chest that comes with trying to connect with people but never getting it quite right, but saying fuck it and being yourself anyway.”
Tilly looks at me, and I look back, a weird, fluttering sensation growing in my chest and spreading down my arms to my fingertips. It’s kind of… nice.
In this moment, I feelcloseto Tilly, like we’re sharing a warm blanket that’s keeping us both comfortable. I don’t know that I’ve felt this with anyone before.
“Do you ever feel…” I clear my throat. “I don’t quite know the words… but in social situations you…”
“Have absolutely no clue what you’re doing?” Tilly says, leaning even closer to me and laughing.
“Yes,” I say, smiling back at her. “That.”
Tilly throws back her head and cackles like a witch. “Ollie. All the time. Every interaction I have feels like I’ve randomly showed up at some theater, am told I’m the lead in a play, then am shoved onto the stage. Everyone else got a script and knows what to say, and I’m somehow supposed to know the lines, without even knowing the plot. It’s a nightmare.”
This pulls a laugh from my own throat. “I like that analogy. A lot.”
“Thanks, it came to me from stress dreams.”
“I’ve always felt like it was more of a thick glass wall,” I say, tapping my fingers on the cobblestones. “I can see other people, observe them, but it’s never quite right. It’s a bit morphed somehow. And sometimes there’s an awful glare that leaves me blinded altogether. And the wall distorts sounds. Screws up what I’m trying to say. Or blocks the coded meanings of others. It always leaves me a little lost. And alone. I think that’s why I give so much of myself to my Instagram account. Posting on there—shrinking my world down to a screen the size of my palm while I deep dive about color and the way it moves the world—allows me to feel closer to people than actually being in their presence. It’s the only way I’ve figured out how to really connect.”
Tilly sighs, and I look at her, worried I upset her or lost her somewhere in my talking. But… no… she’s…
