Three Versions of Every Story

When I was reading Sally Rooney’s latest novel, I came across a concept I loved: every interaction exists in three versions of reality - yours, mine, and what actually happened.

Most of the time, we only ever see our own. We stumble through with half-guesses - decoding short texts, weird tones, awkward silences - projecting meaning where it may not even exist. Somewhere between those perspectives lies “the truth” (or maybe they’re all the truth, just filtered through different lenses).

That’s what makes communication so maddening - and so beautiful. Every relationship in our lives (family, friends, partners, colleagues, even strangers) rests on our ability to bridge those different versions. And it’s really fucking hard. Much harder than we give ourselves credit for.

The first step is learning to interpret your own feelings - to articulate them, even just to yourself. This is important because we are the stories we tell ourselves. The more you repeat a story - I’m happy / I’m unlucky in love / every day has the potential to be the best day ever - the more it shapes your reality (my “Best Day Ever” tattoo is a nod to this idea). That’s why communication doesn’t just happen with others - it starts with us.

Then comes the harder part: trying to share that reality with someone else. Even when you think you’re clear, there are still three versions in play: what actually happened, your interpretation, and theirs. No wonder so much gets lost in translation.

Early last year, I wrote a raw reflection about a relationship with an ex and sent it to him. He instinctively responded with his own version. Reading them side by side floored me - the same relationship, the same moments, filtered through two entirely different lenses. With his permission, here they are.

ME
It always just feels so right. Like we’re in our own little bubble, but not in a suffocating way, more like a warm embrace. He was the second date I ever went on. Can you believe that? So, naturally, we’ve grown so much in the time we’ve known each other. We met on the eve of the second covid lockdown in Melbourne. We were immediately captivated by each other. We dated for months, he was wildly depressed - lost, lonely, jaded. He ended it badly. We rekindled. I moved on. He got a girlfriend. I moved to America. He came to visit and was so happy, the best version of himself and it filled me with joy to see him like that. The chemistry was still there. I’d suggest the feelings were on both sides, not just mine. I came home, he and his girlfriend broke up. He called me. He cried in front of me. Opened up to me. I was there for him. We slept together, it was confusing. We went to Hobart together. It was somewhat confusing but felt like closure. We weren’t meant for each other in that moment, or maybe ever. But it didn’t ruin our connection and the love we had for each other. And that is beautiful. We stayed in touch. I came to Australia. A year since his break up. He’s slowly moving on. We slept together. It felt right. Easy. Good. We fit together. I got weirdly worked up about him messaging my friend inadvertently over Christmas. He admitted he called me Christmas Eve because he was a little drunk, very lonely and it was me he wanted to call. And that says a lot. He says he’ll come to New York in November. And I believe him. I guess part of me hopes he gets the job in North America. When the timings right, perhaps we could be brilliant. It’s been four years. Four formative years. Who knows. But it feels easy. And good. I don’t think we’d ever work properly dating in Melbourne, as history has shown. But for some reason I suspect we’d work wonderfully together abroad. Time will tell.

I think I love him more than he loves me. When we kiss I feel like he’s going through the motions, not kissing me with any passion. He’s easily tempted and I’m pretty enough and he likes me enough. But often that’s all it feels like. That I’ll do. That I’m enough for him to sleep with, but not enough for him to burn with desire. Perhaps I should demand more for myself, have more self respect. I let him get away with it. Let myself be his back up choice. I know he likes me. But does he like me more than that? I’m not sure he does. Maybe he’s not sure either. I never have any clue what he’s thinking, I’ve never been able to read his mind in the slightest. I wish he’d tell me. Because the moments when he’s vulnerable are beautiful and light up my soul. But perhaps I’m guilty of similar behaviour?

I guess every time he’s spoken about being in love with his ex it’s stung. I guess I always swallow it but I’ve always felt it? Have I ever given him any indication of that? I guess not? I wonder if he can see it? Does he know I love him?

---

HIM
I sometimes think I hang out in non-artistic social circles to claim dominance over a bubble of intellectual and cultural superiority. Being the king of my own carefully-crafted skull sized universe has always given me pain relief from the present moment. But it made meeting Mel that much harder when I discovered we were on an equal footing in this regard. The dates were so much fun. She kept me on my toes. Each conversation was a battle of wit. There was some childish desire to one-up her on everything, which was a difficult feat, and I hope she found as much pleasure in it as I did.

She sought my views and recommendations, I felt valued and interesting.

I was intimidated. I craved her ability to make friends so easily. I craved her ruthless ambition and ability to direct efforts accordingly; to find genuine meaning in her work. I craved the way she made daunting life decisions easily, without concern for safety nets, or at least pushed those concerns out of sight. But above all else I knew she found a similar kind of beauty in the world and I wanted this orbit and its energy to make me feel alive for as long as possible.

She gave off this natural air of being in some kind of cultural elite and directly contributed to the movements direction. I don't know if I was more enthralled by this or terrified of not being up to scratch, as if I was moments away from being caught out and losing access to this fascinating and complex woman. Meeting her housemates and friends was terrifying. I died a thousand deaths while choosing which mask to put on to justify being seen in the same world as Mel. At least there was safety in knowing it wouldn't work out.

She wanted to know more about me. I barely knew anything about myself at that point. For me that was the whole point of spending time with her. In Mel I saw a new world of unopened doors and possibilities, a portal to some new reality where I could finally let myself be happy, a springboard to find myself as one does when burdened by the ticking of a clock marking the end of those blissful young adulthood years where ambiguity is accepted and being lost is romanticised.

I can't recall the exact message that spurred me to cut it off. She told me it was cowardly to do it over social media, it absolutely was. But it was efficient and quick. We weren't compatible, I told myself. Though how can anyone be if you cut them off before allowing yourself to develop feelings. A year moved on and Mel moved to NYC. I was immensely proud of her. She deserved everything. Occasionally, I thought of her from Melbourne and wondered how she was doing.

A new woman entered and changed my life.

I went to New York in 2022 and didn't tell my girlfriend about the planned catch up with Mel. I didn't think it was relevant and dreaded being asked about our past. Not that she would have cared. She would have loved Mel.

My girlfriend and I ended. That afternoon I thought about the future and started to physically dry retch. I caught up with Mel the next day. "Oh, do I know about Mel?" my ex asked after I told her about the catchup. "I don't think so" I replied. But I did mention her, numerous times, in stories guised as 'a friend’. This felt like as much disservice to Mel as the way I cut her off. This woman's place in my heart was unwavering, permanent.

Mel the Springboard became Mel the Supporter post-breakup and our complex relationship shifted and shaped. We travelled to Hobart together. While we were sitting on the grass that day she said something that gave me so much comfort that I wished I could have travelled back in time to that dry retching broken mess and hugged him like I craved my dad would.

She recently told me she was struggling. This was strange. Mel was the person I went to with MY issues and how dare she change that. But those indestructible walls were collapsing and I felt worthy to be a part of it.

Mum recently said to me that she wished she could take my pain away, we both know I inherited the depression from her. I couldn't help but think of Mel when she said that, I don't think l've ever wanted anyone else to soar so high.

Beautiful, right? Vulnerable, raw, poetic.

That exchange cracked something open for me. Because how often do we actually get to see both versions at once? Usually, we’re stuck in our own heads, desperately trying to decode the other person’s silence, their short text, their off tone - guessing what they’re thinking, wondering where it went wrong. That spiral will drive you insane. The only antidote is to ask. Sit down and have the conversation. Will they always be truthful? Vulnerable? Maybe not. But at some point you have to trust the words people give you. Otherwise, you’re living in projection, not reality.

This obsession with communication has been my life’s work. I studied it at uni, then did a master’s in media, and now I live it through filmmaking and writing. Compared to most, I’m good at it - but only because I’ve been practicing for years. I remind my friends of this often: if you struggle to articulate yourself, it doesn’t mean you’re bad at it. It just means it’s really fucking hard. Harder than we give it credit for.

Because it’s never just the words. It’s tone. Timing. Text vs. phone vs. face-to-face. Body language. The weight of history you share with someone. The environment you choose for the conversation. Every factor shifts the meaning.

And this isn’t just about romance (though romance is absolutely the toughest). How many housemate conflicts, work dramas, or quiet friendship drifts could be avoided if someone had just said: “Hey, I feel weird - can we talk about it?”

I’ve noticed how much easier it gets when you create shortcuts. Shared language, shared rituals - they lower the barrier to honesty. I wrote about this in a previous post.

So, how do we actually get better at all this? I’m not a psychologist, but here are some suggestions:

• Catch yourself spiralling. If you’re dissecting a text or scripting someone else’s thoughts in your head, stop. Ask instead.

• Pick the right medium. Text is for logistics. Phone is for clarity. In-person is for nuance. Face-to-face will always reduce miscommunication.

• Start messy. Say, “I don’t quite know how to explain this, but here’s what it feels like.” That’s enough to begin.

• Build shared language. A phrase, a place, a ritual. It’s easier to go deep when you’ve already set the tone.

• Trust the words you’re given. At some point, you have to. Otherwise, you’ll drive yourself mad.

The point isn’t perfect clarity - I don’t think that’s even possible because every relationship will always hold three versions of the story: yours, theirs, and what actually happened. The point is to keep trying. To be courageous enough to say something, clumsily, instead of nothing at all. And to give each other grace when we inevitably get it wrong.

As always, I’d love to hear your thoughts on this - your versions, your stories, your attempts (messy or otherwise).

Mel x