''I pray that my days will be long at your side. Let me fill and satisfy every longing in your soul. May your hand be in mine, by sun and by night. Let our breaths twine and our blood become one, until our bones return to dust. Even then, may I find your soul still sworn to mine.''
Do you ever feel as if you wear armor, day after day? That when people look at you, they see only the shine of steel that you've so carefully encased yourself in? They see what they want to see in you-the warped reflection of their own face, or a piece of the sky, or a shadow cast between buildings. They see all the times you've made mistakes, all the times you've failed, all the times you've hurt them or disappointed them. As if that is all you will ever be in their eyes.
How do you change something like that? How do you make your life your own not feel guilt over it?
I wonder if you're lying in an unmarked grave, covered in blood-soaked earth that I will never be able to kneel at, no matter how desperate my soul is to find you.
“You see, without the weird phase. Without the work, the struggle, there’d be no victory. Without the ugliness, there’d be no beauty.”
“So… the only way to get there—” I pointed at the blue sky where butterflies all over the world spread their wings, then at the fuzzy caterpillar squirming in my papa’s hands. “—is to start here?”
“That’s right.” Dad nodded in satisfaction before presenting me with an unexpected gift—the caterpillar itself. First, he’d eased my contracted fist open, and then he’d transferred the fragile little guy over from his palm to mine.
Looking at him then, he wasn’t weird anymore.
Or gross.
He was a fighter.
Here to remind us that it’s okay to struggle and fall.
Because if you didn’t… then how would you ever fly?
That didn’t explain why I’d snuck a couple of Giana’s books out under my shirt when I’d popped by to bring her dinner in the middle of the week. She’d quickly kicked me out since she was studying for a test. But I took those books and did a little studying of my own.
I memorized what pages she’d dog-eared, or highlighted, which ones had the distinct oil from her fingertips being on them more frequently than others.
So, what if Adam went ahead and did it? What if he told Olive the truth?
Pretty fucking tragic twist of fate, but you don’t seem to remember that we first met years ago. An issue, since I remember a little too well. I like no one, absolutely no one, but I liked you from the start. I liked you when I didn’t know you, and now that I do know you it’s only gotten worse. Sometimes, often, always, I think about you before falling asleep. Then I dream of you, and when I wake up my head’s still there, stuck on something funny, beautiful, filthy, intelligent that’s all about you. It’s been going on for a while, longer than you think, longer than you can imagine, and I should have told you, but I have this impression, this certainty that you’re half a second from running away, that I should give you enough reasons to stay. Is there anything I can do for you? I’ll take you grocery shopping and fill your fridge when we’re back home. Buy you a new bike and a case of decent reagent and that sludge you drink. Kill the people who made you cry. Is there something you need? Name it. It’s yours. If I have it, it’s yours.
“Well, it’s like you’re saving your energy for something. Holding back,” she says, nestling into me and getting comfortable. “But it doesn’t make any sense. Life is one-way, and there is no return trip. What are you waiting for?”