I met Jonah a year ago. He was wearing a knee length dark grey coat with a t-shirt underneath that said “point me towards the goats.” I never understood that shirt. Jonah was a beautiful man.  His eyes were the color of leaves that crunched beneath your feet and his skin was a few shades darker. Whenever I saw Jonah, he always had black scruff scattered over his jaw. It was always really patchy no matter how long the scruff grew, almost like he purposely shaved the gaps in place. One day he’d be dressed in all neutral colors and the next he’d wear a variety of clashing patterns, but it would always involve his dark grey coat.

Jonah was always carrying this really crappy camera from 2003, you could practically count the pixels in all the pictures he took with it. But it didn’t matter, he’d use the stupid thing until it could no longer take pictures. It was still working when we broke up, but three months after, I got a text from an unknown number saying that the camera’s button got jammed. I knew it was him, it was his way of trying to hold on to us. I didn’t care for the camera until it broke, that’s when I realized I hated it. It started the whole thing.

The night Jonah and I had our first date, he took me to an art museum. It was some crappy college art museum that didn’t cost any money, but Jonah wasn’t the type to try to impress. I understood that not even half an hour into our date. While we were in the modern art section he told me to wait right where I was, that he had to use the bathroom. Ten minutes later, I saw the flash go off and heard the camera shutter. He stood there with his camera pressed against his nose and a big, cheesy smile on his face.

“I don’t like to take pictures of art,” he said. “Art knows it’s beautiful, it’s aware that it’s there to look pretty.” I stared into his mahogany eyes for a few seconds before breaking out into laughter. Who the hell did he think I was and what freaking rom com is he practicing for?

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. If you don’t like to take pictures of things that know they’re f***ing beautiful then it’s a good thing I didn’t come here to be your model.” I used to curse a lot when I got angry, but after things ended, I cut back. I’m not gonna pretend to be grateful for a comment that implies I shouldn’t know that I’m a catch. Just because I don’t wear cut up boyfriend jeans or bodycon dresses doesn’t mean that I’m insecure. It just means that I know what looks good on my body, and it’s not either of those things. What pissed me off more was that he smiled even wider, like it was exactly what he wanted to hear. Not only that, but I hated that I liked it. I liked that stupid smile and the way the light bounced across his dark face, exposing every bump that covered his marked skin. I hated that I was absorbed by his eyes, and his lips, and the way he carried himself. I hated that I was so shallow that I could move past that annoying comment because of how incredibly handsome I found this man, despite his patchy beard and his bumpy skin.

He had this stupid obsession with art museums. His favorite stuff was always the crappy fake famous paintings you’d see hanging in local museums and coffee shops. Whenever I entered his apartment there was always a new knock-off hanging right in front of the doorway. There seemed to be some sort of pattern, though. Every few weeks I’d see a new version of Mona-Lisa. By the end of our relationship, Jonah must’ve spent thousands of dollars just on those Mona Lisas. He even freaking got me a Mona Lisa mug for my birthday. It was a miracle he was half blind and couldn’t tell a fake smile from a real one. One of his biggest faults, really.

By the end of our relationship I felt so neglected that I’d fight with Jonah over anything, just to get him to ask me what was wrong. I couldn’t tell him anything. Thank God I didn’t tell him anything. It made the whole thing so much easier. He took away all my favorite things about myself in the process. The only way I can describe Jonah is a leech. I could feel him sucking away but he was the itch on my back that was just out of reach. But Jonah didn’t change whatsoever. He still wore his patterned pants and he still had his uneven beard. His camera was always around his neck and he never missed an opportunity to take a picture of me. One day he came up to me with a photo album. I remember it so well, it was one of the days that he wore a shirt with words that meant nothing. This time it read “king of speeches, speech of kings.” We sat on his torn up, burnt orange couch facing each other. Jonah’s coffee colored knees, that peaked out of the holes in his blue camouflage jeans, were pressed up against mine as he placed the album on top of them. It was facing towards me as he opened it.  I couldn’t pay attention to it because of that stupid shirt. Where the hell did he get those? Why was it so pointless? And why were we so pointless?

The only two photos I really saw in the album were the first and the last. It made me sick. I could feel a tsunami of acids crashing against the sides of my stomach. Jonah couldn’t tell I wasn’t alright that day until I rushed to the bathroom and threw up. I didn’t know what was wrong, I was so appalled by how much I’d changed. My pants became tighter and my dark circles turned blacker. I no longer felt like the girl who laughed at him for being an egotistical jerk, but the one who giggled along and tried not to overthink his words. His marked skin no longer made me wonder, it just made me turn away. In the last week of our relationship, I had 37 staring contests with Mona Lisa. When I was growing up, I envisioned her as a superhero, now all I saw behind her eyes were answers that I couldn’t find. It took me 37 tries to realize what was happening. It took Jonah two.

On our last date, he took me to another art museum to see yet another Mona Lisa. I was still feeling sick of myself that day. Jonah walked me to the modern art section of the art museum and told me to wait because he was gonna get me something. He came back with a doll-sized tie dye t-shirt that read “I guess the sky’s just sad” and an envelope with cash messily sticking out of the top, so thick that it wouldn’t close. In that last moment with him, he took me into his arms and pressed his full lips against my forehead. The whole time I was trying not to laugh because his patchy beard was tickling me, I loved that beard more than the man behind it. His cinnamon eyes stared into mine until they briefly slid down to my stomach. His hands glided from the small of my back, all the way to my stomach while taking slow steps away from me. That was when he turned around to walk in the other direction with my confused gaze tracking his every step. Then he turned around one last time and held his camera up to his eye once more. One bright light later and he was gone. This time, no protests were to be heard coming from my mouth.

I started to wander around the museum after I had mustered up the courage to pick up my feet. I ended up finding a familiar face. This would be my 37th staring contest with Mona Lisa. I stared until I could see right through her. Suddenly, I knew exactly what Jonah didn’t say.