If Oscar Isaac were your boyfriend, he’d know about your penchant for doodling people during long phone calls. You’d leave your notebook open on the kitchen counter and return later to find your sketches surrounded by speech bubbles, giving them fascinating conversations that hinted at rich inner lives.

If Oscar Isaac were your boyfriend, his eyes would have lit up the first time he heard your huge firework of a laugh, the laugh you never taught yourself to quiet or modulate. “Oh my God,” he said, “you’re cute.” Without fail, his eyes would always light up the exact same way when you laughed your big laugh. One day you’d be watching a show and he’d arrive home with that light in his eyes, and when you asked, “What?” he’d grin that lopsided grin and say, “I could hear you laughing all the way from the elevator.”

If Oscar Isaac were your boyfriend, you’d pick up Spanish pretty quickly, even though you dropped it in sixth grade. You’d also get better at French, even though you dropped it after high school. Heck, you’d be fluent in Hindi, even though you haven’t had a class since college, because you wouldn’t be afraid of making a fool of yourself when struggling with a language; you’d know Oscar would gently let you know if you drop a pronoun or five.

If Oscar Isaac were your boyfriend, sometimes he’d jokingly call you his “problematic fave.”

If Oscar Isaac were your boyfriend, he’d check in on you intermittently when you worked from home. “Jesus, babe, you’re a person, not an automaton that sacrifices its body and soul at the pedestal of capitalism,” he’d say while adjusting your Gollum-esque posture, or getting you a new cup of tea to replace your long-abandoned one, or physically pulling your chair away from the computer while you clawed at the mouse. 

If Oscar Isaac were your boyfriend, when you sang in the shower in the mornings, you’d keep the door open so he could sing along with you. Among other things.

If Oscar Isaac were your boyfriend, you’d be banned from any and all Hamilton sing-alongs because last time Oscar blew them all away with a terrifyingly amazing rendition of “Wait For It.” “I’m really sorry,” your friend who organizes the events would say. “We just can’t handle the excessive sobbing.”

If Oscar Isaac were your boyfriend, you would both have the option to skip any TV episode that involved losing money or playing around with savings or throwing it around or lying about it. In fact, both of you would audibly wince when you saw Jake Peralta’s bathtub of bills on Brooklyn Nine-Nine, and you’d take turns telling each other when it was okay to look during the entire first season of Silicon Valley.

If Oscar Isaac were your boyfriend, he’d always ask what you were thinking when you were having a really good thought. You’d have long discussions about the incredible chaos and beauty of the world, and also whether the two of you combined could convince aliens to befriend humans. “You’d be a great human-alien diplomat,” he would say. “The aliens would love you.”

If Oscar Isaac were your boyfriend, you’d make up strange little games in all the museums you went to. “You know,” he’d say, pointing to a giant dinosaur skeleton, “we should get this for the living room.” “What is this, a temple for ants?!” you’d ask, pointing to a model in the ancient Egyptian architecture exhibit. “Actually, ants have a much stronger Puritan work ethic,” he’d say, squinting at the description card. “It says this is a temple for praying mantises.”

If Oscar Isaac were your boyfriend, he wouldn’t really care too much about social media, but he’d take the pictures when you ask, record videos when you say, and follow you — and only you — on Twitter. The one tweet he would ever like would be a joke you’d told him you worried wasn’t actually that funny.

If Oscar Isaac were your boyfriend, you would not be cool about his friendship with Lupita Nyong’o – you’d be OVER THE DAMN MOON about it. “Okay, but does she ask about me? Does she smell really wonderful? Do you think she would approve of this outfit,” you’d ask him constantly. He would introduce you eventually, and say later that you “shoved me out of the way like you didn’t know me from Adam!” But he can’t prove it.

If Oscar Isaac were your boyfriend, you’d convince him to cameo on your favorite TV shows. His singing would be heavenly on Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, his character on Adventure Time would give you lovely, weird dreams — but his bit as a hot Ayn Rand-loving mansplainer on Broad City would be the one that left you in tears of laughter.

If Oscar Isaac were your boyfriend, you’d argue over which character traits each one of you “got.” “I’m doing that movie, and I think Wendell’s habit of forgetting a detail and bringing it up in the middle of a conversation would be perfect for the character. You read the script, you know I’m right!” “Look, that tic is perfect for this short story I’m writing, and you used Serena’s rapid-fire speaking style in your Broad City cameo!” “Fine, fine. But that means I get Meg’s super angry face.” “Deal.”

If Oscar Isaac were your boyfriend, you’d get your thick, dark eyebrows done at the same time. He’d always tell you sincerely that your brows look better.

If Oscar Isaac were your boyfriend, you’d tell him how much you love a certain type of person, you know, the kind who never makes you feel like you’re left hanging in a conversation or in a terrible situation or in the world. The kind of person who’s solid like a rock, who knows who they are. You wish you were like that. “You are,” he’d say. You would stare at him, mouth agape, as he continued, “You are that type of person.” “Since when?” And then he’d smile quizzically at you, like are you kidding? and say, “You’ve always been that type of person.”