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AlluringEnigma
Wet Narcissist
- Joined
- Feb 25, 2016
- Location
- Madness Incarnate
I liked to lie outside while we talked. The cool summer nights felt perfect, and my house lay situated overlooking a picturesque wooded valley. The sun would slowly set amongst the distant mountains and I would enjoy the melodic tones of her voice, and occasionally the rare treat of her face. No single gesture had ever made me happier.
The screen is blurred and her voice is pixelated. She keeps adjusting her iPad, as if the angle will really save the pixelation, or the lighting will really show just how beautiful she is. And she is beautiful. Or maybe not. I’m too desperately in love to know.
We’ve done this before. Our Skype talks would usually start sometime in the evening, around the time any reasonable person would go to bed. They’d usually end around the time an insomniac would call it a night, which is fine by me – sleep has always eluded my grasp anyways. Every night our talks went longer. Every night my hope grew.
A few months before all this, we walked awkwardly through an arcade, exchanging dismal small talk and polite laughs. She told me, a year or two after our talks had subsided that she had pretty much decided that she didn’t need another date to figure it all out. Yet, I was persistent and she was too polite to even voice her disinterest, and a hesitant romance seemed to develop. A couple months later, it seemed as if her mind was changing. As if the nightly barrage of texts had finally cracked her defenses.
So there we were - her pixelated screen like a priceless portrait to me, and her choppy voice a symphony to my ears. We talked for hours, though I couldn’t recall a word of the discussion. Every different conversation was meaningless in its own unique way; none of it mattered in comparison to her presence. Her profession of love to me would have meant almost as much as her reading aloud the financial headlines of the day. She was a drug, a quick fix that I wanted more of the longer I was with - and the longer I was away from.
There’s an unspoken history between a pair of lovers that’s never mentioned. I never knew why she was always so hesitant to never committing the plunge into a full-on relationship. She never knew that my heart had been broken so thoroughly the first time I had lain out so bare that I was loathe to let her go, out of fear that she’d leave me behind. After all, scars are never visible from so afar.
We had been talking for almost eight straight hours. It was 4 AM and I was begging her to go to bed; I still wish she had ignored my pleas. She had to go to work in the morning. The goodbye had been the easiest I had ever exchanged with her. I felt so confident in what I had. I wasn’t at all worried about letting it go for such a short time.
The day before we had spent the evening planning out dates for the summer, a contrived mix of long hikes, baseball games, and movies. The next day I had received a text out of nowhere from her. “I’ve spent all summer trying to love you, and I just can’t. I don’t think we can be anything other than just friends.”
In the end, it turns out, I had nothing.
I wanted to lay it all bare for her. I wanted to tell her how the last time I had spent so much time resting so much hope on one person I had been used to get to another person. I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to punch a wall. I wanted to go back to when things had been so hopeful and naïve. I wanted to lie out amongst the setting sun and pretend like there was still a chance while we talked the evening away. Instead, I told her I understood.
Having your heart broken the second time is the worst one of all. When you pour it out the first time, you can chalk it up to naivety. The first girl who broke my heart had a bewitching, melodic voice. She was a professional singer after all. There was an innocence to her that seemed to lull any defense and a fake smile that could convince anyone of its honesty. The first time was terrible – but my naivety was understandable.
When your heart gets destroyed for the second time, you feel numb. All the careful defenses you thought you built from the first time failed you. All the logical thoughts in the world couldn’t save you from your own emotions. The second time your heart gets broken, the calluses really form, the defenses you first tried to build are really raised.
I still think back all these years later to those summer nights. The nights when the sun was setting and the cool summer breeze rolled in. The nights when the stars faintly glimmered. The nights when the air was filled with hope and possibility. I’m glad I never knew what was to come at the time. The moment may have been wrong, or at the least misguided, but at least I didn’t have to watch it slip through my fingers. At least she left my memories, even though she took my heart.
The screen is blurred and her voice is pixelated. She keeps adjusting her iPad, as if the angle will really save the pixelation, or the lighting will really show just how beautiful she is. And she is beautiful. Or maybe not. I’m too desperately in love to know.
We’ve done this before. Our Skype talks would usually start sometime in the evening, around the time any reasonable person would go to bed. They’d usually end around the time an insomniac would call it a night, which is fine by me – sleep has always eluded my grasp anyways. Every night our talks went longer. Every night my hope grew.
A few months before all this, we walked awkwardly through an arcade, exchanging dismal small talk and polite laughs. She told me, a year or two after our talks had subsided that she had pretty much decided that she didn’t need another date to figure it all out. Yet, I was persistent and she was too polite to even voice her disinterest, and a hesitant romance seemed to develop. A couple months later, it seemed as if her mind was changing. As if the nightly barrage of texts had finally cracked her defenses.
So there we were - her pixelated screen like a priceless portrait to me, and her choppy voice a symphony to my ears. We talked for hours, though I couldn’t recall a word of the discussion. Every different conversation was meaningless in its own unique way; none of it mattered in comparison to her presence. Her profession of love to me would have meant almost as much as her reading aloud the financial headlines of the day. She was a drug, a quick fix that I wanted more of the longer I was with - and the longer I was away from.
There’s an unspoken history between a pair of lovers that’s never mentioned. I never knew why she was always so hesitant to never committing the plunge into a full-on relationship. She never knew that my heart had been broken so thoroughly the first time I had lain out so bare that I was loathe to let her go, out of fear that she’d leave me behind. After all, scars are never visible from so afar.
We had been talking for almost eight straight hours. It was 4 AM and I was begging her to go to bed; I still wish she had ignored my pleas. She had to go to work in the morning. The goodbye had been the easiest I had ever exchanged with her. I felt so confident in what I had. I wasn’t at all worried about letting it go for such a short time.
The day before we had spent the evening planning out dates for the summer, a contrived mix of long hikes, baseball games, and movies. The next day I had received a text out of nowhere from her. “I’ve spent all summer trying to love you, and I just can’t. I don’t think we can be anything other than just friends.”
In the end, it turns out, I had nothing.
I wanted to lay it all bare for her. I wanted to tell her how the last time I had spent so much time resting so much hope on one person I had been used to get to another person. I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to punch a wall. I wanted to go back to when things had been so hopeful and naïve. I wanted to lie out amongst the setting sun and pretend like there was still a chance while we talked the evening away. Instead, I told her I understood.
Having your heart broken the second time is the worst one of all. When you pour it out the first time, you can chalk it up to naivety. The first girl who broke my heart had a bewitching, melodic voice. She was a professional singer after all. There was an innocence to her that seemed to lull any defense and a fake smile that could convince anyone of its honesty. The first time was terrible – but my naivety was understandable.
When your heart gets destroyed for the second time, you feel numb. All the careful defenses you thought you built from the first time failed you. All the logical thoughts in the world couldn’t save you from your own emotions. The second time your heart gets broken, the calluses really form, the defenses you first tried to build are really raised.
I still think back all these years later to those summer nights. The nights when the sun was setting and the cool summer breeze rolled in. The nights when the stars faintly glimmered. The nights when the air was filled with hope and possibility. I’m glad I never knew what was to come at the time. The moment may have been wrong, or at the least misguided, but at least I didn’t have to watch it slip through my fingers. At least she left my memories, even though she took my heart.