I knew we will never happen, because it was never meant to, and I did tell you that I don’t think things are ever just meant to happen, they are instead made to happen. You and I both know that no matter how hard we try, it would have never happened anyway.
But I guess the beauty of us lied in the fact that we tried, we did, and maybe beautiful things are meant to be tragic too, because that’s what we were. Tragic. But resonant. Especially when you would ask me if I knew where your keys were and halfway through your question, I would tell you they were in the back pocket of yesterday’s jeans. And there they would be. You would smile at me, the kind of smile I only ever saw thrice.
I kept count, of course I did, like how I kept count of the number of times you called me because she didn’t go to dinner, because she wouldn’t return your calls, because she was upset with you and it was your fault, because you were upset with her and still it was your fault, because she told you that she needed space and all you wanted was to be close, because she said she couldn’t do it anymore and you were afraid of being alone.
Six. Six times I said it’ll be fine, that all you needed to do was talk, because talking through things work, and yes it’s okay to feel bad and to be mad and to be sad, because that’s how we keep ourselves alive, and that’s how we slowly kill ourselves, because we can never feel bad and be mad and be sad for too long.
But we never really talked, and I deeply regret it, like how I regret not asking you what you meant when you said that sometimes you find her boring and sometimes it’s great, but I’m different because I’m always funny and funny is always great. I never let myself feel bad or be mad or be sad with you because I thought I wasn’t supposed to, because it was wrong, because it was uncalled for. And that’s how I realized I was dying too fast.
And soon you told me it got too boring, that it was never great anymore, and you cried for three hundred and thirty-two seconds, before you stopped being anything but nothing. You were nothing for a long while, fifty-two days, fifty-two days of nothingness, and still I wanted all that nothingness, because it still moved like you, smelled like you, felt like you. I was worried, worried sick, which was bad because I was dying, dying too fast, remember?
Then I told you that maybe we should do something, and you asked what, and I said maybe open a bookstore, and you asked me why, and I said because we have too many books, because we both like books and it made perfect sense. You smiled — the second time I saw that smile — and laughed, and it made my heart do that flipping thing that I thought people in books made up. It wasn’t made up, no, not at all, it was real and fleeting, and it only ever happened to me twice.
It was a silly idea, you said, and I agreed, but we talked about it a lot, and slowly you were something again, something that would make fun of me because I can’t raise my left eyebrow, something that knew what my friends’ names were because you think I talk about them too much even if I don’t, something that would make me say things I never said to anyone, secrets, words I never thought I’d have the use for.
And that was when I knew you scared me, you terrified me, you and your wholeness, our imaginary bookstore, our silly imaginary bookstore. It scared me because for once the future wasn’t a foreign word, something that was on paper with checklists and blanks to fill up, that could be loaned from a bank and paid off later. It was something I looked forward to, something that made me laugh a little when I think of, because it was silly, and it seemed real.
We were writing on papers with checklists and blanks to write on when you started humming, and I looked up, because the checklists bore me and the blanks were less, much less interesting than the mole on your left ear. You hummed, and you sang, try to hold on to this heart a little bit longer, you smiled at me — third and last time — and my heart did that flipping thing — second and last time — try to hold on for this heart’s a little bit colder.
And soon it wasn’t about our bookstore, or the words I never said to anyone else, or the smiles and the heart flips, or her, or us, or how hard we tried. I was leaving, and you were leaving, and we were in a tug-of-war, and you did not try, try, try. You never did, you never counted like I do, you never told me what you meant when you said that boring is sometimes great. And that’s why it was never meant to be, why we were never meant to happen, and I am telling you now.
This is exactly a thousand words, a year and a half of humming, try to hold on and we have survived, but the song lied, like all songs do, because we didn’t survive, we never would have, and that’s why it was beautiful, and tragic, and I can never ever tell which is better. But I hope these words, exactly a thousand words, will help you choose, are we all better off beautiful or tragic?, and if you find out for sure, never tell me, because these thousand words tell me enough, enough to last a lifetime.
But I guess the beauty of us lied in the fact that we tried, we did, and maybe beautiful things are meant to be tragic too, because that’s what we were. Tragic. But resonant. Especially when you would ask me if I knew where your keys were and halfway through your question, I would tell you they were in the back pocket of yesterday’s jeans. And there they would be. You would smile at me, the kind of smile I only ever saw thrice.
I kept count, of course I did, like how I kept count of the number of times you called me because she didn’t go to dinner, because she wouldn’t return your calls, because she was upset with you and it was your fault, because you were upset with her and still it was your fault, because she told you that she needed space and all you wanted was to be close, because she said she couldn’t do it anymore and you were afraid of being alone.
Six. Six times I said it’ll be fine, that all you needed to do was talk, because talking through things work, and yes it’s okay to feel bad and to be mad and to be sad, because that’s how we keep ourselves alive, and that’s how we slowly kill ourselves, because we can never feel bad and be mad and be sad for too long.
But we never really talked, and I deeply regret it, like how I regret not asking you what you meant when you said that sometimes you find her boring and sometimes it’s great, but I’m different because I’m always funny and funny is always great. I never let myself feel bad or be mad or be sad with you because I thought I wasn’t supposed to, because it was wrong, because it was uncalled for. And that’s how I realized I was dying too fast.
And soon you told me it got too boring, that it was never great anymore, and you cried for three hundred and thirty-two seconds, before you stopped being anything but nothing. You were nothing for a long while, fifty-two days, fifty-two days of nothingness, and still I wanted all that nothingness, because it still moved like you, smelled like you, felt like you. I was worried, worried sick, which was bad because I was dying, dying too fast, remember?
Then I told you that maybe we should do something, and you asked what, and I said maybe open a bookstore, and you asked me why, and I said because we have too many books, because we both like books and it made perfect sense. You smiled — the second time I saw that smile — and laughed, and it made my heart do that flipping thing that I thought people in books made up. It wasn’t made up, no, not at all, it was real and fleeting, and it only ever happened to me twice.
It was a silly idea, you said, and I agreed, but we talked about it a lot, and slowly you were something again, something that would make fun of me because I can’t raise my left eyebrow, something that knew what my friends’ names were because you think I talk about them too much even if I don’t, something that would make me say things I never said to anyone, secrets, words I never thought I’d have the use for.
And that was when I knew you scared me, you terrified me, you and your wholeness, our imaginary bookstore, our silly imaginary bookstore. It scared me because for once the future wasn’t a foreign word, something that was on paper with checklists and blanks to fill up, that could be loaned from a bank and paid off later. It was something I looked forward to, something that made me laugh a little when I think of, because it was silly, and it seemed real.
We were writing on papers with checklists and blanks to write on when you started humming, and I looked up, because the checklists bore me and the blanks were less, much less interesting than the mole on your left ear. You hummed, and you sang, try to hold on to this heart a little bit longer, you smiled at me — third and last time — and my heart did that flipping thing — second and last time — try to hold on for this heart’s a little bit colder.
And soon it wasn’t about our bookstore, or the words I never said to anyone else, or the smiles and the heart flips, or her, or us, or how hard we tried. I was leaving, and you were leaving, and we were in a tug-of-war, and you did not try, try, try. You never did, you never counted like I do, you never told me what you meant when you said that boring is sometimes great. And that’s why it was never meant to be, why we were never meant to happen, and I am telling you now.
This is exactly a thousand words, a year and a half of humming, try to hold on and we have survived, but the song lied, like all songs do, because we didn’t survive, we never would have, and that’s why it was beautiful, and tragic, and I can never ever tell which is better. But I hope these words, exactly a thousand words, will help you choose, are we all better off beautiful or tragic?, and if you find out for sure, never tell me, because these thousand words tell me enough, enough to last a lifetime.