14
1384 Words
We choose a quiet corner to sit in. Reed hardly says a word as he opens his book—titled She, I now notice—as I open my own and begin to read.
And it's enthralling. The way the author describes anxiety, the pondering of metaphorical and physical things, has me hooked on every single word. She makes my anxiety sound like a natural, human reaction rather than a problem. A breakdown of different sciences rather than an overall issue.
It makes sense, suddenly, all of it does. The overthinking. The reevaluating. The overall panic. It all makes sense.
About ten minutes after I started my book, Reed taps my shoulder. I look up at him, and he smiles, pointing to a line in his own.
"She did not believe me when I told her that she was special, and perhaps that is what made her so."
"Flocon de neige," he says brightly, and I just reread the sentence, over and over, breathless. He nudges a shoulder into my own. "I told you so."
I give a small, shaky laugh, and he peers over my shoulder.
"Any good quotes in yours?"
Nodding, I flip back a few pages and show him one of the crisp, new pages.
"One day, someone is going to change everything in your life. Someone is going to come along and scare you in all the best ways, challenge you, make you laugh, make you cry. Someone is going to make you so happy that you're afraid of the feeling itself, because you don't want to lose them. And you know what the best part is? You won't lose them. If they're the right ones, you will never lose them."
"Hm," Reed says, "That's beautiful."
"Yeah," I say weakly, hoping he can't hear my heartbeat, pounding like a drum.
"But is it true?" he asks, softly, shyly. "I mean, is there really a perfect match for everybody?"
"I like to think so," I reply, and his eyes meet mine, just for one heart-stopping moment.
"Me, too."
And with that, we go back to our books as if nothing's happened, when in fact, everything has.
________
After a while, I peek over at him, and I'm shocked at what I see. An intense expression, brows dipping towards his eyes, glasses balanced towards the end of his nose as he reads the book, looking as if nothing else possibly matters right here, in this moment.
And perhaps it doesn't. Perhaps nothing else matters but me, him, our books, today, this moment, this very second. Maybe life isn't about living for, but rather living in. Maybe it's not about waiting, it's about starting. Not about chance, but about fate.
Maybe life is all about living.
Before I can think any further, Reed looks up at me, smiling when he realizes that I'm already staring. Heat infuses my cheeks; I mutter a quick apology.
"It's fine," he says, "I'm finished, actually."
I frown, and he jumps in quickly. "It's a really short book. But what really got to me was the ending. Want me to tell you about it?"
I nod; of course I do. Reed scoots in closer.
"Okay, so this entire time, he's been talking about this girl," he says, using his hands as he speaks, "That he met exactly once. He spent a night in the city with this girl, and ever since, he's been in love with her. Anyways, he spends the entire book describing her, talking about her, how he in love he is with her, how incredible that one night was, how they kissed. And it's beautiful and awful because this entire time you know that he hasn't seen her since."
I wait with bated breath, itching to read the ending, the part he's so wound up about, but he keeps explaining, his expressions pained and enlightened and a million other things.
"And, at the very end—" he pauses, looking at me and sucking in a breath, "Well, see for yourself."
I lean in carefully—although he doesn't seem to mind— and squint at the lettering, printed neatly across the page in solitary lines.
"I saw her yesterday.
For a split second, I saw her.
And the blue of her eyes met the green of mine, and her name formed on my lips, and I felt like running.
I felt like rushing up to her, like taking her face in my hands and kissing it, kissing every crevice, every last inch.
But I didn't.
I couldn't.
I froze.
I stood there, and she saw me, and I waited.
For recognition.
For familiarity.
For a sign.
But you know what I got?
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
She didn't know me.
I could say her name, right then and there, and she still wouldn't know me.
And it was as if all the time I have spent fantasizing and writing about her was for nothing, as if my heart was being torn to shreds and I couldn't breathe and suddenly I felt like screaming my lungs out of my chest because she didn't recognize me and the world wasn't fair.
She walked away that day.
I didn't follow her.
And yet you hold this book in your hands, this shrine to the girl I once loved, the girl I knew for one night, one monumental night. I still published it. Even though, just twenty-four hours ago, she was still in reach.
But I realized something. Even after all of this time, all of this writing and wishing and wanting, I realized something.
Maybe love is meant to only last one night. Maybe just a few weeks. Maybe a year. Maybe even a split second.
Maybe love is meant to have its time, to live and to die, like people do. Maybe love is meant to only last for as long as it can. Maybe it is a spark put out before it has the chance to really burn.
Maybe love is all of these things, and maybe that one night with that one girl is the only taste of it I will ever get.
And even so, I will move on. I will find someone else.
But I will not forget. Because even though the night has passed, and even though I have let go of it now, after seeing her, I have still published this book.
And maybe—just maybe-—it will cause you to find love, too. However lengthy or short-lived it may be."
I release a breath. And maybe it's the warmth of Reed's skin under my own, or the smell of books, or the fact that this man will never reunite with the girl he mourned over for years—maybe it's all of these things that cause me to start crying.
It's a few tears only, but they're obviously there. One slips down my nose and onto Reed. The other slides down my cheek and against the ridge of my jaw. I wipe at my eyes furiously, but it's too late; he's already noticed.
"Hey," he says softly, turning so that I'm sitting up straight and he's looking at me. "Come here."
His arms slip under my shoulders, and I bury my head into his shoulder, unsure of why I'm crying but thankful that he's not asking.
"It's terrible, isn't it?" he asks, his voice gentle, "The thought of it. A love that only lasts one night."
"Yeah," I say, pushing the words past my constricted throat. "It is."
He pulls away briefly, and I force a laugh, looking up at the ceiling.
"Oh, God, I'm sorry," I say, sniffing, "I—I didn't mean to—"
"It's okay," he says, "Honestly, it makes me want to cry, too."
I laugh at that. "Why don't you, then?"
He tilts his head with a wink, his voice full of sarcasm.
"Oh, you know. Certain standards of masculinity to live up to."
"Shut up," I say, and he laughs, an arm still looped around my shoulders.
"It's gorgeous, though," he says, and I nod. "That's the worst part."
I draw a breath, and he runs a thumb against my cheek, absentmindedly wiping away a stray tear.
"Why is it the worst part?" I ask, and he smiles as he answers,
"It's hard not to fall in love with gorgeous things."
- Writer
