People want to hear songs with the words they’re afraid to say.
He works in the lobby and wears all black. His smile is a siren call. It draws you in, unassuming, twitching up at the corners at everything you say.
He’s so tall that even your heels can’t quite reach him. You ask him one question, keeping it simple - Do you go to school?
There’s a flash of something in his gaze. His eyes are the ice on the lake - Beautiful but dangerous, like you could break right through and never surface again.
His mouth opens and he tells you everything. He’s 8 months sober. Went through a pretty rough time. He talks about a treatment program that sounds an awful lot like jail.
It’s been ten minutes and you know his life. It’s been ten minutes and his smile is still there, calling out to you, even as he talks about falling into the abyss.
You’re stunned, but not speechless. You say - 8 months. That’s amazing. I’m proud of you.
He smiles, and the siren song rings in your ears. It’s been ten minutes and you’re proud of him. Thank you.
You can feel yourself falling through the ice, can feel the cold water stealing the oxygen from your lungs. The siren song twists itself around your body in a frigid embrace. His smile is the last thing you see before you black out.
You’re back in the lobby. You’re saying goodbye, that you should probably get back to work. He smiles at you too casually, like he didn’t just see you drowning.
You breathe - In, out. You count to ten. You want to return to the ice. But you want to dive in this time, not fall, because you saw something - You saw a hand stretching out of the blackness. His hand. Maybe he was reaching for you, maybe he was reaching for someone else. But all that mattered was that he hadn’t given up, hadn’t taken the final breath. He wasn’t drowning. He was waiting.
Work goes by in a blur. You forget about drowning for a while. But then you see him leaving, and you remember the sting of your lungs, and you remember the hand - You say goodbye and wave. He smiles.
You play the radio in the car on the way home, but you don’t really hear it. All you can hear is his smile. You dream about a hand that night, reaching for you from the dark depths in the water. You grab onto it but you can’t seem to move it anywhere. You wake up and wonder if you weren’t strong enough, or if he wasn’t ready.
You see him again. His smile gets brighter each time; the siren song crescendoes. Every night, the hand grabs you a little tighter, and you pull it a little farther.
You’re still waiting to see his face, there in the depths. You’re still not sure if you ever will. But you’re okay with waiting. You’re learning to breathe underwater, learning your own siren song. Maybe you won’t have to grab his hand - Maybe he’ll swim up to meet you.
You start to dream about other things - his lips, his laugh, the crinkles at the edges of his eyes.
No, I don’t go to school. Wasn’t that all it would have taken?
Most fun zodiac signs to least
What I’ve Learned:
1. A girl can lose feelings for you over night.
2. A kiss can be just that, a kiss. Completely meaningless.
3. Love can be one sided but I still wonder if that is love at all
4. Never beg for someone to stay or to love you. You shouldn’t have to beg for someone to be a part of your life or to love you. You deserve better than that.
5. Stop breaking your ribs to make space for those who do not belong there.
6. Learning to breathe again is harder than the doctors said it would be.
7. I don’t know what hurts more at night; being alone or being in love.
8. Laying with someone in bed at night is temporary. It won’t get rid of the lonely. You will still wake up and leave in the morning with a heavy heart and no hand to hold.
9. Sometimes the sky rains gasoline instead of water and you have to be strong enough and ignore the urge to set yourself on fire.
10. I will be okay someday. Bad things happen for no reason sometimes and things end but that shouldn’t mean you should come to an end too. The ocean will always have waves; I just have to learn to swim through them for a bit longer.
11. The stretch marks I left on my mother from birth will not be another suicide letter I never finished.
I love you, I do. But I am afraid of making that love too important. Because you’re always going to leave me. We can’t deny it. You’re always going to leave.
Between what is said and not meant, and what is meant and not said, most of love is lost.