▸ Column · Neon-drenched, decaying Gotham — the asker writing in from the city while her partner is away at a research fellowship across the country
THE JOKER replies.
The letter
My boyfriend and I have been doing the long-distance thing for over a year — he's chasing some research fellowship out west while I'm stuck here in Gotham. For months I was fine. Genuinely fine. Then about six weeks ago he started spending every Friday with his "lab crowd," and one name — Priya — started showing up in every single story. Now I dread our Sunday calls instead of counting down to them. I haven't said a word, because I honestly can't tell if I'm onto something or if the distance is just inventing monsters for me. He's never hidden his phone, he texts constantly, he already booked a flight to come see me. None of the obvious red flags. But every time he laughs while typing her name, my stomach knots up and I can't talk myself out of it. Do I say something and risk looking like a jealous wreck, or wait and hope the feeling burns off before he lands?
The Joker replies
Oh, pumpkin. That knot in your stomach? Ha — that's the only thing in your whole sad little letter that isn't lying. "I was completely fine!" You keep saying it like a prayer. Fine, fine, fine — until one Priya-shaped pebble drops in the pond and whoops, there go fourteen months of pretending you don't have teeth.
Here's the gag nobody told you: the 2,400 miles didn't build the monster, sweetheart. They just turned off the laugh track so you could finally hear it. Ha-ha-HA!
So no — don't wait for it to fade. Fading is for wallpaper. You want my prescription? Call him. Not Sunday. Now. Mid-laugh, mid-typing, while her name's still warm in his thumbs. And don't ask the careful little question. Drop the good-girlfriend mask — the one that's been smiling so politely it's cutting into your cheeks — and let him watch it hit the floor. Whatever's underneath? That's the real you. Finally invited to the party.
You won't get an answer you like. You'll get something better. The truth, with the safety off. One bad Sunday is all it takes. Bring me the ashes — I do love a punchline. The only one who ever calls me back is a man in a bat costume, and he never laughs.
— The Joker
Batman weighs in
Ignore the clown. He wants you to torch a good thing because the fire amuses him. It always does.
The knot is data. It is not a verdict. Evidence first.
You already listed the facts. Open phone. Constant contact. A booked flight. Those are not the patterns of a man hiding. A guilty man builds walls. He has built a door.
So gather more. Watch. Listen on Sunday — really listen, without his voice as a weapon turned on yourself. If the picture holds, the problem was never Priya. It was your own fear, unverified, given a name.
Then ask him. Plainly. Not as an ambush. As someone who deals in truth, not ashes.
The distance is the enemy. Not him. Fight the right one.
— Batman
▸ Read next