there's still a part of me left for you ; emily/alison ; g
A love like that was a serious illness, an illness from which you never entirely recover. -- Charles Bukowski
Her heart has changed. Love has changed, for her. There are things -- people -- she loves. Has loved. But they aren't the same.
What she still misses are those tiny moments, the ones that blur together until they're just a moment singular. Alison turning to her in class, grinning, handing her a note. Their fingers brush together. In the hallway in between classes, Alison bumping her shoulder playfully. Their eyes meeting across a crowded room: a school assembly; the Founder's Day festival; a party; in Philly, out shopping. A shared smile. Alison coming up behind her, covering Emily's eyes with her hands, whispering guess who, her breath warm and sugary. Emily can imagine a thousand lifetimes of turning around to see Alison.
They didn't have a love that could last. They never had a love at all. Even now Emily isn't entirely sure what it was that they did have. A bond, of sorts. A fondness for each other. A closeness between them that the other girls could never quite touch. There was something special and nameless between them -- perhaps that was what made it so lovely, the fact that it couldn't be given a name. It was something precious, treasured. Like the snow globe Alison once gave her.
("You're the only one who really understands me, Em.")
She kisses Maya, but she thinks of Alison, her soft mouth pressing lightly and hesitantly against Emily's. When she takes Paige's hand in her own, threads their fingers, all she can feel is Alison's sun-warmed skin. Samara's hair is not as golden as Alison's, her eyes not such a sure and striking blue.
She has tried so hard to let Alison go. She took off the bracelet that Alison gave her, put it away where she wouldn't have to always look at it -- but her wrist looks so bare now. Foreign, like it's not really her own. She moved the snow globe from her desk, but nothing seems to fit in the space left behind. She has filed away the love letter she sent, tucked it in a book she never, ever looks at anymore, but her pen still remembers all the words she wrote.
And there are so many little things, always. A song they listened to, once. Can you still feel the butterflies? She remembers it playing softly in the background as she lay on Alison's bed, watching her try on new outfits -- their eyes meeting in the mirror, Alison flashing that smile of hers, the one that always made Emily feel warm all the way down to her toes.
(She remembers being happy, once. She remembers that old rush of joy.)
This is absolutely wonderful! I love the way you've written Emily and the connection she feels/felt to Alison and how she'll never really have that again even if she can be happy in a different way.The way you write is lovely and you've painted so much of Emily and Alison's interaction in such a short space, capturing an entire portion of their relationship and I really, really love this.
I really like this! Especially: "What she still misses are those tiny moments, the ones that blur together until they're just a moment singular." Just, guh. All the little moments you weaved together were just wonderful. You've got Emily down to a tee. And the quote at the beginning was perfect for these two. Great work! :)
A love like that was a serious illness, an illness from which you never entirely recover.
-- Charles Bukowski
Her heart has changed. Love has changed, for her. There are things -- people -- she loves. Has loved. But they aren't the same.
What she still misses are those tiny moments, the ones that blur together until they're just a moment singular. Alison turning to her in class, grinning, handing her a note. Their fingers brush together. In the hallway in between classes, Alison bumping her shoulder playfully. Their eyes meeting across a crowded room: a school assembly; the Founder's Day festival; a party; in Philly, out shopping. A shared smile. Alison coming up behind her, covering Emily's eyes with her hands, whispering guess who, her breath warm and sugary. Emily can imagine a thousand lifetimes of turning around to see Alison.
They didn't have a love that could last. They never had a love at all. Even now Emily isn't entirely sure what it was that they did have. A bond, of sorts. A fondness for each other. A closeness between them that the other girls could never quite touch. There was something special and nameless between them -- perhaps that was what made it so lovely, the fact that it couldn't be given a name. It was something precious, treasured. Like the snow globe Alison once gave her.
("You're the only one who really understands me, Em.")
She kisses Maya, but she thinks of Alison, her soft mouth pressing lightly and hesitantly against Emily's. When she takes Paige's hand in her own, threads their fingers, all she can feel is Alison's sun-warmed skin. Samara's hair is not as golden as Alison's, her eyes not such a sure and striking blue.
She has tried so hard to let Alison go. She took off the bracelet that Alison gave her, put it away where she wouldn't have to always look at it -- but her wrist looks so bare now. Foreign, like it's not really her own. She moved the snow globe from her desk, but nothing seems to fit in the space left behind. She has filed away the love letter she sent, tucked it in a book she never, ever looks at anymore, but her pen still remembers all the words she wrote.
And there are so many little things, always. A song they listened to, once. Can you still feel the butterflies? She remembers it playing softly in the background as she lay on Alison's bed, watching her try on new outfits -- their eyes meeting in the mirror, Alison flashing that smile of hers, the one that always made Emily feel warm all the way down to her toes.
(She remembers being happy, once. She remembers that old rush of joy.)
She is happy now, she knows.
But it isn't the same.
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