Love is a tricky thing. Some moments, it makes you believe that everything is possible. In others, it’s strikes you hot with its hatred, forcing you to believe that it was never real.
Our Girl mostly knew of love the way we prefer to know it: a stolen kiss by the lake, your grandmothers wrinkled hands as she patted your head and kissed your forehead, or simply the way the breeze engulfed her when she visited her home by the beach. But recently, she was learning about the other face of love… The one that forced you to replay your actions and words over and over. The one that makes you both weak with sadness and hot with rage.
Our Girl loved him with all of her heart, so much so that love was confused with pity and even worse, pain. He was probably never as good to her as she thought he was, however she wouldn’t know that until age had wrinkled her eyes from laughter and wisdom built callouses around her soul.
One night, after another argument that left her heart feeling ripped apart—confused, aching for validation of his love, she begged into the wind for understanding. She begged to understand why her love was not enough, why some unexplainable destiny forced them to spit rage over the things that didn’t matter. She cursed herself for asking too much of him and expecting him to understand and wished he would hug her instead of shove her.
Our Girl went to sleep that night with her chest in a knot, an ache in her heart and tears down her face; the pain almost too uncomfortable to sleep. In the middle of the night, she found herself walking along a cloud. There was a lightness of being that made her feel as if she was staring deep into the soul of love and understood ever corner of it.
Love was not the sharp pain in her chest or the knot in her stomach. Love was not the hot pain of angry words, like taking a dagger to the chest. It was not the blood that pooled around her broken heart after those angry dagger words. Love was the opposite of that, she knew it deep down and she knew it all along. Love was like her grandmother’s wrinkled hands, soft and warm with memories. It was like the stolen kiss by the lake, an exciting moment that no one else knows about. It was refreshing like the breeze by the beach in her hometown. That’s what love feels like, she felt it that night on the cloud. In that moment, she pulled the knife from her chest and smiled. No love was ever going to make her feel that again.
This story was written earlier this year for my writer’s group: Bogotá Writer’s Group, an English language fiction writers group. Check us out on Instagram! All works are my own and were written as exercises for the group. If you would like to know more, please contact me.