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But the fire of true hatred, I realize, cannot exist without the oxygen of affection. I would not hurt so much, or hate so much, if I did not care.
She’s never lived anywhere but in books and memories.
And every day he humiliated me in front of the people we knew. He made my world, my thoughts, and my feelings seem small. Pathetic. And every day I’d count the letters piling up in my in-box, screeds from his old friends begging me to see reason, as they called it. To remember myself. To stop embarrassing my family. To listen to my father. To grow up, be a man, and stop crying over my sick mother.
“I love you,” she says.
The words do something to me every time I hear them. They change me. Build something new inside of me. I swallow, hard. Fire consumes my mind.
and I still feel lost.
Half paralyzed.
“The world tried to crush you,” I say, gently now, “and you refused to be shattered. You’ve recovered from every setback a stronger person, rising from the ashes only to astonish everyone around you. And you will continue to surprise and confuse those who underestimate you. It is an inevitability,” I say. “A foregone conclusion.”
“How many times do I have to ask you to stop falling in love with me?”
“Men,” she says, “are always so baffled by women’s clothing. So many opinions about a body that does not belong to them. Cover up, don’t cover up”—she waves a hand—“no one can seem to decide.”
And he looked like the saddest man in the world when he said—
“I know.”
“And it is my very sincere hope,” he says, “that you will still love me when I return.”
“Yes, well, I don’t want to be nicer to people. It doesn’t suit me.”
“I think it suits you beautifully,” I say, beaming. “I love it when you’re nice.”
“You would say that.” He almost laughs. “But being kind does not come naturally to me, love. You’ll have to be patient with my progress.”
And I have no one to blame but myself.
She told me she loved me and I couldn’t bring myself to respond.
She cried, even with her eyes closed.
I don’t know what comes over me.
Desperation. Desire. Fear.
Love.
It hits me with a painful force, the reminder. Of just how much I love her. God, I love all of her. Her impossibilities, her exasperations. I love how gentle she is with me when we’re alone. How soft and kind she can be in our quiet moments. How she never hesitates to defend me.
I love her.
I can always feel the rush of emotion in her words, in her eyes. The certainty that she would fight for me. Protect me. And knowing this makes my heart feel so full that, sometimes, when we’re together, I can hardly breathe.