Once upon a time, there was a girl. She tried to make good decisions, but she was broken in many ways.
In the same time, near to the same place, there was a boy. He had many admirable qualities, but he also was broken.
They met. They drew toward each other like magnets situated just so. Sometimes it felt like their broken bits would get in the way and ruin everything, but other times they fit in a way that was uncanny and almost perfect.
She loved him. She loved his face and his freckle and his body and his mind and his warmth and the way he stood and even the way he wrinkled his nose when he considered things like sweet potatoes. They talked about any number of things, and he made her reconsider many of the philosophies she’d come to accept as truth.
He didn’t want her to like him as much as she did.
They got better and better, and then they didn’t.
Once he went away, and when he was gone she was too sad to eat. Another time she flew into a rage and pushed him away. She was sad during those times too, and angry.
She asked the sky, she asked the ground, and she asked the wall for help, but the sky and the ground and the wall were not disposed to give advice. She didn’t stop loving him, even though sometimes her anger burned like hate.
Then one day the sky and the ground and the wall whispered, “Tell him.”
She ignored them, because what did they know? They’re not even supposed to have an opinion.
The sky and the ground and the wall repeated themselves, and this time a tree joined in, but she ignored it too. They didn’t know how badly it would go—the boy didn’t want to hear she loved him. The sky and the wall and the ground and the tree probably didn’t know she’d blurted the uncontainable words before and that he’d frozen, terrified, and she didn’t understand why it had made him so upset. No good would come of that conversation.
The sky and the ground and the wall and the tree clamored their insistence, and they recruited the desk and the pan and the candle and the cards. They begged her to relent, and finally she acquiesced, still knowing it would end badly but persuaded to proceed heedless of the outcome.
Because when the sky and the ground and the wall wake up, one should do as they say, even if it’s restating something someone most certainly already knew.
And so she told him she loved him, just the way he was.
No one knows how that went.
In the same time, near to the same place, there was a boy. He had many admirable qualities, but he also was broken.
They met. They drew toward each other like magnets situated just so. Sometimes it felt like their broken bits would get in the way and ruin everything, but other times they fit in a way that was uncanny and almost perfect.
She loved him. She loved his face and his freckle and his body and his mind and his warmth and the way he stood and even the way he wrinkled his nose when he considered things like sweet potatoes. They talked about any number of things, and he made her reconsider many of the philosophies she’d come to accept as truth.
He didn’t want her to like him as much as she did.
They got better and better, and then they didn’t.
Once he went away, and when he was gone she was too sad to eat. Another time she flew into a rage and pushed him away. She was sad during those times too, and angry.
She asked the sky, she asked the ground, and she asked the wall for help, but the sky and the ground and the wall were not disposed to give advice. She didn’t stop loving him, even though sometimes her anger burned like hate.
Then one day the sky and the ground and the wall whispered, “Tell him.”
She ignored them, because what did they know? They’re not even supposed to have an opinion.
The sky and the ground and the wall repeated themselves, and this time a tree joined in, but she ignored it too. They didn’t know how badly it would go—the boy didn’t want to hear she loved him. The sky and the wall and the ground and the tree probably didn’t know she’d blurted the uncontainable words before and that he’d frozen, terrified, and she didn’t understand why it had made him so upset. No good would come of that conversation.
The sky and the ground and the wall and the tree clamored their insistence, and they recruited the desk and the pan and the candle and the cards. They begged her to relent, and finally she acquiesced, still knowing it would end badly but persuaded to proceed heedless of the outcome.
Because when the sky and the ground and the wall wake up, one should do as they say, even if it’s restating something someone most certainly already knew.
And so she told him she loved him, just the way he was.
No one knows how that went.