Dear Lily,

We met in my dream the other night. I was in Chicago, standing on the platform of some hybrid of the Sheridan and Addison stops of the Red Line. Addison is where the Cubs won the World Series last year, and Sheridan is just north, where some of my friends live. As in most dreams, I knew where I was without the details to support it: the stop must have been Sheridan because I remember facing south…but no, it must have been Addison because I remember standing under an awning, and the buildings around me were taller and more clustered together. The air and sky was orange like late afternoon in L.A. but the ground was quiet and wet like mornings in London. I was asking myself why Chicago felt like two other cities, not yet fully aware I was dreaming, when the train pulled up, flash-blocking my view of the second-stories on the other side of the tracks.

The realization of the dream didn’t take much longer to arrive: it rolled into the station as soon as I saw your face. The doors to the train opened, and back against the opposite wall you stood leaning against the vertical handrail like I usually do, and stared off past the doors at some unmarked point on the ground. You were on the phone, arms crossed with one hand pressed up against a beanie-covered ear.

Is that…? No, it can’t be, I thought. This was the moment I knew I must have been dreaming. And then you looked up at me, sent a sharp jolt through my chest near my diaphragm, like zapped butterflies, and I found myself making a motion with my hand as we made eye contact, before I could even properly discern whether or not it really was you looking back at me.

What the hell was that? We thought the same thing. I could tell by the flash of confusion that crossed your eyes, then you frowned and focused on that unseen point again and your conversation.

I had lifted my hand up to my ear, pinky and thumb out, hanging loose, and made a telephone up by my ear. I put it down as you watched, and then pulled in a couple times toward my chest, which I realized too late came off as, “We know each other, and I have something to say to you once you’re off the phone.” The gesture had the same familiarity, same ease and simultaneous urgency as a kid interrupting their mom while she’s on hold with H&R Block. You even kind of nodded. Embarrassed, I leaned against the glass partition on the opposite side of the car, dropped my gaze, and waited.

I thought again about how I was dreaming, about how in this moment I knew what I was doing, but also functioned as a passive observer to my own actions. It must have been a promise-based impulse. I must have promised myself a long time ago that if I ever saw you in person, I would introduce myself and say “Hi!” But so many illogical circumstances reminded me I wasn’t awake, and wasn’t actually looking at you: for one, you were alone and I wondered where your entourage or security guards or manager were (I don’t know how celebrities move around, honestly); two, it made no sense that you were in Chicago; and three, you definitely wouldn’t be taking the CTA instead of a nice SUV or something like that.

“No,” you said into the phone, “We’re supposed to meet at the Blackstone. Yeah, that’s what she said, at least.”

Sadness came over me: my initial excitement about having met you had not worn off, which stung even more as I knew it wasn’t actually you, and then the even greater sadness that I couldn’t imagine a world in which I would bump into you on the CTA.

Sure, the sticky latticework patterns on the floor that change direction with the train smell like pee (hint: it’s because they are), and sure, it’s crowded at the end of a long day with businesspeople smelling of BO and drunk Cubs fans, but the train is also full of life and love. There are mothers with strollers and friends sharing headphones and two men from Boystown napping on each other’s shoulders. And I wonder when, if ever, you get to sit back and watch the world and all the people in it, get to be a part of all this commotion in the way that I do.

In the dream, no one seemed to know it was you except me. Or, at least, they had the courtesy not to bother you about it. You were in dark jeans with rips in them, an army green jacket, a scarf, and a knit beanie, and save for your eyes, you looked just like the rest of us.

You said “Blackstone” again, and I realized you were headed in the wrong direction. We were on the Red going north, and you would have wanted to go south, get off at either Harrison or Roosevelt and walk toward the Lake.

I do this thing when I bump into people I know: I check my memory inventory for any and all info I have on a person. This could be birthdays, significant others, field of study, insecurities and fears…the list goes on. I run over everything I know quickly in my mind so I can hold a decent conversation, show an interest in them as a person, and get an update on how they are doing lately. Train run-ins never last very long, so it isn’t usually so intimidating when you only get a few seconds to run the memory scan.

I think I was doing this with you while I waited for you to get off the phone. What did I know of you? Did I know anything? I saw you on Ellen, which I remember made me envious in a happy way. Ellen seems like a kind woman, and she asked you about your writing, which is something I’ll admit to always having dreamed of discussing with her. I remember admiring the courage it must have taken to write a personal memoir and put it out there for the world to see, wondering what it must take to tell the truth like that.

But this thinking backfired: all I knew came from social media, like all those people I may bump into on the train, it’s just snippets and tidbits of information the world is allowed to see. But what about bumping into an acquaintance, not knowing you were interrupting a thought so private and personal it took them a moment to come back to reality and recognize you? Or what about all the selfies discarded before the right one is settled upon? Is there ever a moment strangers in passing can cross over that line and come to an understanding, I don’t know, that you didn’t know how to get to the Blackstone and that I didn’t know where I was going at all?

I had all these questions I wanted to ask you: how different is it to be a celebrity? How does it feel to be put on a pedestal, idolized and ostracized at the same time? Do you prefer the AC in the SUV, or do you miss the train?

I felt shame for noticing you instantly, for making a promise to myself that I would approach you and introduce myself on the merit of your appearance without ever having laid eyes on you in person before, introduce myself on the merit of your character without ever having seen you acting out life.

I wanted to invite you on an adventure. I wanted to cancel my plans, get off at the next stop and immediately get on the next southbound train, wanted to take you to my old Columbia campus where I used to make movies with my friends, wanted to walk with you to the Bean and offer to take pictures of tourists but take selfies on their phones instead, wanted to meander around Reckless Records and pull out every copy of Phil Collins I could find, wanted to tiptoe around the Art Institute and ask you which pieces resonated with you and why, wanted to walk with you out where it’s quiet by the Planetarium, wanted to sit and watch the water and pretend it’s the ocean, wanted to ask you about your favorite color and which side of the bed or your body you like to sleep on, and what your pet peeves are, and I wanted to be a person and I wanted you to be a person and rather than something beautiful I wanted to say I actually knew you as someone beautiful.

But you hung up the phone, and you crossed over and closed the space between us.

Your face shocked me.

Your hair was different colors and split ends, your eyes had sparks of green in them, your skin looked like actual skin and not an airbrush, cheeks red from the cold, and were those freckles or just the sun coming in through rain-spotted windows and painting your face?

Was I allowed to see you this way? I looked away and laughed in spite of myself: I felt as if I were standing in front of a familiar Van Gogh or DaVinci or Kahlo, felt as if I were seeing it for the first time up close, and just as I leaned in to confirm what I was seeing, the portrait turned and looked at me.

You waited for me to say something.

“You’re Lily, right?” I felt like a voyeur. What right did I have knowing that?

“Yep,” you said, used to this sort of thing.

“It’s really nice to meet you, and uh- I don’t know, I…”

“What’s your name?” You must have been used to this part, too.

“Oh, Evan! My name’s Evan. Like ‘heaven’ but way more underwhelming.”

You pursed your lips and leaned your head back like it came as a greater surprise than a name like that would. An almost convincing eureka! moment. Even a slight smile. Was that a laugh?

“Nice to meet you,” you said, then paused to check the approaching stop.

I figured I didn't have much time, definitely didn’t have enough time to say what I wanted to. You ever have it where you practically write an essay for a speech class, are ready to recite it verbatim, and then when it comes time to actually speak, you’ve forgotten most of the words? Yeah, so you understand me when I tell you what I said next:

“If you’re in the city for a while, I would love to take you to dinner or something.”

The silence. You looked at me again.

“I have a card,” I said, as if my business credentials would help somehow.

Your eyes. I wondered again if I were dreaming: such piercing eyes couldn’t have just been fabricated. Were we sharing this dream together? Those weren’t dream eyes. They were big and deep and intense and terrifying and gorgeous and they were judging me. Hard.

At first I was taken aback, almost offended. Cut me some slack, I thought, This sort of thing takes courage! But the stillness of your face, the way your eyes stopped searching and gave up, made me wish I could take back what I said. I realized how many times this type of interaction must happen to you on a regular basis. How often people must jump to a conclusion, assuming they know you, assuming because you’re on a pedestal above them that they should just reach if they want to get to you. How many times men must see that surface beauty and frantically jump at their chance for a date with a person they don't even know. I wondered how insulting, objectifying, dehumanizing that must feel.

So I’m asking you to be the spokesperson for this, as a woman, a celebrity, and a human: how, when so many perfect strangers can recognize and want to be around you, is someone supposed to approach you, hope to get to know you in a way that is welcome and not alarming, respectful and not shallow?

I think the anonymous collective of us wishes for something more, some recognition that we’re special or talented or beautiful, and I think, unfairly, we grasp at celebrities to help us bridge that gap. And because all we know is what we’re shown, we separate celebrity from humanity and forget that social cues and boundaries and courtesy apply to you just as much as anyone else; in other words, how could I invite you on an adventure so it’s clear I’m asking you and not your image?

Maybe Ellen knows the answer to this, I thought, That right there is someone who knows how to treat a person like a person. Gets along with everyone!

The train slowed to a stop. You took a deep breath, smiled at me sympathetically, and said, “No.”

I said I was sorry.

The doors opened and you left, before I could say goodbye, and before I could tell you that you had gotten off at the wrong stop. The doors shut as I turned around, before I could say anything.

We met in my dream the other night, but it felt palpable and true to reality. I could attribute that to the rejection, as that’s not too uncommon, but I choose instead to give it to the interaction and the emotion. Neither of us- the train passenger or the celebrity- seemed to understand the other, which is a shame, and something I would love to fix.

So, maybe next time you’re in Chicago, you can look me up, we can meet as strangers, and I can show you the most beautiful spots in the city, and we can look silently at those portraits in the gallery and wonder if their subjects are anything like everyone assumes. I may have missed my chance in my dreams, but that’s usually when things get exciting: the moment after you don’t get what you expect or are hoping for. It’s the same with people, don’t you think?

Or maybe I’ll pass you on Wacker while I’m walking, and it’ll be Spring, and you’ll have the window down in the back of your SUV so you can breathe in the air like everyone else, and I’ll recognize you because you’ll be smiling, and just like everyone else passing on the street, I’ll smile back at you and know that’s enough, that we understand each other, what’s happening, that I don’t have to say anything at all.

Your stranger,

Evan Falls