It was only one night, but his hands running down her back and his lips on her neck seem to be a broken record in her head. It’s not that she misses his smell or the spark of his skin on hers; she craves touch. Any touch. She craves the touch of his arm on hers or their fingers laced. She misses the touch of his breath on her ear as he whispers sweet nothings. But a “he” is just that, and any he will do, and it’s one thing to be alone but another to be lonely. It’s 1:05 in the morning and she’s drunk but he’s the only one on her mind. And him, and him too. Her head spins and her ears are ringing with the words she should have screamed aloud a long time ago, but the worst thing about falling to pieces is that humans do it so quietly. No one hears her heart crack or the soft patter of dripping blood on new, white sheets, and no one can hear her mismatched breaths as she tries to find someone a little better than him. She’s lying in her bed, in her house, and all she wants to do is go home.
People are not rain or snow or autumn leaves. They are not beautiful when they fall. People are more of a hurricane, with tsunami waves coming in all directions; tears so powerful that they drag you down to the dirty depths and you’re scared no one can find you again. Trapped under the misty light that comes through six feet of water over your head, you wonder if this is what it’s like to die.
But no, you are terrified. And death is not something to be afraid of.
I hope we all find a way to calm down someday, taking the swirling winds of the hurricane to something of a subtle drizzle.
She wraps her arms around herself a little tighter than normal and the chilly air from inside the still car kisses the nape of her neck. The only noise around them is the pitter-patter of the drizzle hitting the windshield. The houses surrounding them are eerily quiet, and a glance from the dashboard clock reads almost three fifty-seven in the morning. He puts his hand on the small of her back and rubs up and down, up and down, up and down. In the pit of her stomach she feels something that shouldn’t be there – a grief, a regret, a guilt.
“What’s the matter?” His brow furrows over his eyes. In the dark they look almost black, but she knows behind the shadows of the night they shine the same, bright blue as shimmering swimming pools on an August day, filled with smiling children and laughter.
“You don’t deserve me. I’ll never be good enough, love. I try, and try, and I always fall short.” Her bottom lip starts to quiver a little more than it does when she’s nervous but a little less than it does when she’s mad.
He kisses the quivering lips and feels the tension in her arms subside as they fall from her waist into her lap. The grief, regret, guilt in her stomach flutters from a brick to a butterfly as she buries her brownish blonde hair into his neck. She can smell his cologne. All he can smell is sweet lavender and coconut; the same lavender and coconut that wafts from her hair when she spins in circles; the same lavender and coconut he gets her for her birthday every year. He’d do anything for her.
“I’ll love you till the end of everything.” He grabs her hand in his and squeezes tight. “I’ve loved you since the beginning of everything, too.” She glances down at the ridge in his thumbnail and the cuff of his favorite Patagonia sweatshirt. She hides a tear rolling down her cheek. She might be the worst person in the world but she’ll always try her best for him, and when he looks at her with love in his eyes, she knows that everything is going to be alright. Maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow, but some day, the planets and stars will align and she will be okay.