Elliot Page

This was the most time we’d spent together since backpacking through
Eastern Europe. Long, meandering journeys leading us back to the frigid
winter in Queen West, Toronto, thirteen years after Juno’s premiere. He was
my guest at that Toronto International Film Festival. I’ll never forget the
look on his face when he saw me as hair and makeup did their final touches.
His eyes were big, an expression like a stomach drop, he looked on with
noticeable concern. I had the urge to take him aside, to explain, but what
was there to say?
And after this, there was a drift. We no longer lived in the same city and
I progressively disappeared as I tucked myself away. I didn’t want to see
that expression on his face, I didn’t want to be reminded, I already knew. It
all felt choiceless. And we never really did talk about it, I felt embarrassed,
ashamed, betraying myself felt like betraying him, too.
He knew it wasn’t me then. Now, he knew it was.