The way I spent every day and night hoping for your return, the loss of sleep and slashes left behind. My tirade of destructive behaviours, presented to you, but to no avail. The stumbled words and halted feelings from your departure and quiet appearance. How my heart could feel no other love but for you, the missed opportunities and deepend regret. Oh, if I could explain to you, by text or tongue, the words and emotions that I had forgotten, that my mind could not voice, I would feel a freedom similar to being locked in a larger cage. My love ends not, but my potential to express it stops at your deterring rhetoric. Those who love you dearly, or whom you love as they do, are as undersevéd as I, but cannot admit their own downfalls. May you live in the ignorance of my failings, or feel the vivacious freedom of understanding one you see so closely. I could not release my torment onto you, but who shall hear it‽ My chains remain, and I could not transfer them to you, but where shall they lie‽ My repentance serves no purpose. My justification finds no footing. Try my body and life shall run dry. Try my mind, and ye shall reap bounties.

I had been developing a crush, which speedily turned into infatuation, over a girl in my AP Language course. We had some common interests; dancing was our most cherished activity. She introduced me to another world just minutes from my familiar school, one of ecstasy and freedom. It was a quaint dance studio, and we attended a single class together. A short digression from my main point was merely context for the wondrous tale I shall tell now.

A delicate fall breeze had awoken that Thursday afternoon, pulling us to and fro along a winding path to a day unforgettable. The ringing bell, the shifting of the bodies, and I sat still. I could not prepare myself enough for this moment — I would be truly alone with her, and see her as she wished. Nights prior I had been attempting to fathom all possible outcomes, from the romantic to the disastrous. My cards were on the table, my mind at the whim of my body, it was symphonic.

We stood idly outside the band room awaiting her father’s arrival. I remained mostly silent with soft eyes resting towards her, hidden behind the protect barrier of my sunglasses. She had placed herself next to her crush, a man I could neither loathe or admire, for he seemed a fair gentlemen. Still, he was the impediment I so desired be removed. Eventually a kind boy noticed my silence and engaged in polite discussion. He seemed non-threatening enough to not return to his friends at a later hour and defame my character, so I felt comfortable being uninterruptibly blunt. As soon as I began to notice my tinge of awkwardness, I believe she did as well, and quickly whisked me away to her father’s pickup truck, a vessel to a land undiscovered.

Our slow approach to the front door consisted of my struggle to grasp my keys and my mindless comments. My hands felt excited, as if they ached to grab her, hold her close to me, yet I resisted, and instead decided to allow her inside my home. She exhaled a soft “wow” and began to slip off her backpack as her eyes wandered over the ceiling, and then towards the living room. Her eyes admired the size, as it was comparatively palace-like to her home, whilst her hands explored the cool granite countertop. I can remember few of her words, many we her basic chatter, which I loved so, and he random spurts of ideas, to which I would not trade for the world. I offered to show her just outside, where the wooden deck boasted an open valley, filled with the rushing sound of the creek and the soft lick of sunlight. She observed the panoramic view, slowly lifting herself up via the faux redwood railing, absoring the sounds and sights few could enjoy as she did. I took great pleasure in seeing her in this moment, a woman, totally encapsulated with the world; she could fight any battle, love any one, be desireable.

I forbore from exiting, but I could not resist her wishes for nourishment. She began preparing a meal of fried eggs and I, being as predictable as ever, moved towards the cupboard for my bowl of trail mix. I stood beside her, occasionally reaching over to unattractively devour a peanut or raisin. We conversed and smiled about the most basic of concepts; it was truly an ideal world I had placed myself in, and I knew the end was far off. She decided to consume her food upon the ancient beige couch, I, however idiotically, laid on the equally beige carpet, just next to a coffee table I was bound to mention during our conversation. It is fairly basic, mainly serving as a shelter for my cat and a surface on which many drinks have met their freedom from the confines of this mortal plane. Nonetheless, my mother had placed many scrapbooks that rested in elongated wicker baskets. I reached for one—purposefully—and began to show her my so-called “Toddler Book”. This was partly to bring reason for her to sit near me, yet I had also subscribed to the idea that embarrassment can show vulnerability, a desireable quality in many. I flipped through each page with haste, trying to slow down to bask in this glorious moment, trying to move faster as I felt that I was boring her (a comment on the entire evening). She laughed and grinned at each page, and I stole glances at her vibrant smile and vivacious eyes, oh how they glistened more with each passing breath.

Soon after, she mentioned our main purpose for being with one another that day. We walked downstairs, her lagging behind me as I could hardly hold the anticipation back. I began by showing her my gaming setup, and I received a reaction similar to one many have given me—pity, politeness, and a hint of hope. I thought she might enjoy my passion, and while she could not engage in insightful conversation about the craft, she respected my fiery rhetoric and lust for greatness. Still, the main act was to begin now, there was no more stalling, the time to delay had passed, and I could not have imagined the gravitas this day would carry to this day.

She wanted to conduct a choreography session, a time taken to reimagen the emotions normally reserved for text or tongue. A song was played: it was “Medicine” by Daughter and remains a most treasured piece. We moved back the rough green couches and cleared the floor. It was a slow beginning, neither of us we’re that experienced nor had we planned any starting point. Yet, the inevitable passage of time pushed us closer to one another. We began will slow movements, building as the song progressed. A soulful song created a delicious dance. I felt whole, as if my holey heart had found true sustenence. I moved effortlessly alongside her, our bodies one as the heart moved for us. I noticed her eyes closed at times, gracefully believing in her own legs and arms to be safe, but also relying on my grasp for comfort. I felt lifted. I felt free. I felt the weight of a love lost to time released, even for just an hour. Her quiet gaze fell upon me, and I fell apart, feeling weakness so true, so profound, that I felt no other desire than to hold her for the rest of time. Still, time marches forward, and I cannot leave the past, so my present is ridden with a love shattered.