Don't call me by your name

Eugene never quite fit into the small coastal town of Malaysia. His name itself was a point of contention among the locals, who seemed to insist on calling him by anything other than his name. “Gene, Genie, Euge,” they’d say, as though the syllables of “Eugene” were too heavy to bear.

One foggy morning, as Eugene sat by the docks with his journal, a stranger approached him. She was tall, with auburn hair that caught the sunlight in fiery streaks. Her confidence was magnetic, and her voice carried a lilt of curiosity.

“Eugene, right?” she asked, pronouncing his name correctly. For a moment, he was stunned.

“Yes,” he replied cautiously, unsure if this was a trick.

“I’m Margot. Heard a lot about you around town. You’re a bit of a mystery, aren’t you?”

Eugene shrugged, flipping through the pages of his journal. “People like to fill in the blanks when they don’t have the full picture.”

Margot laughed, a sound like chiming bells. “Fair point. Still, I think you’re more interesting than they give you credit for.”

Eugene couldn’t help but smile at her sincerity. It had been a long time since someone spoke to him without imposing their version of him. They walked along the docks, exchanging stories about their lives. Margot, it turned out, was an artist passing through Malaysia, seeking inspiration for her next series of paintings.

“Do you mind if I sketch you?” she asked suddenly, breaking their comfortable silence.

Eugene hesitated. “Why me?”

“Because you’re you. Not Gene, not Euge, and definitely not Genie. Just Eugene,” Margot said, her tone firm yet kind.

For the first time in years, Eugene felt seen—not as a projection of others’ perceptions but as himself. He nodded. “Okay. But I have one condition.”

Margot raised an eyebrow. “Name it.”

“Don’t call me by anything other than my name.”

Margot grinned. “Deal.”

As the days turned into weeks, their friendship deepened. Margot painted Eugene in various settings: sitting by the docks, leaning against the weathered lighthouse, and gazing out at the endless expanse of the ocean. Each piece captured not just his likeness but the essence of who he was.

When her time in Malaysia came to an end, Margot invited Eugene to her gallery opening in the city. The exhibition, titled “Eugene,” was a tribute to authenticity and the beauty of individuality. The townspeople, who had never truly known him, saw Eugene through Margot’s eyes for the first time.

As Eugene stood in the gallery, surrounded by Margot’s work, he realized something profound. He no longer needed to explain or defend himself. For the first time in his life, he felt free.

And in the midst of it all, Margot approached him, her smile as radiant as ever. “So, Eugene, what do you think?”

He looked at her, at the paintings, and then back at her. “I think you’ve given me my name back.”