(no subject)
Do you remember the day we met?
It was a Thursday, and there were clouds in the sky. You couldn't see the sun, and I assured you it was there with a smile. You looked back at me and you weren't quite sure how to respond. (I get that a lot.)
You didn't fall in love with me that day.
But don't worry, I didn't fall in love with you that day, either.
It was a Saturday when we became friends. Before, I was the weird one, the one who you couldn't quite get a grasp on. There was nobody around, just me and you and the tree sitting next to us. It was silent and awkward for a few minutes, before you said something. And then. Then. We became friends, you became my best friend, and you didn't even know it.
You still couldn't get a grasp on me, but that's okay. I don't have a grasp on me, either.
The day I fell in love with you was a Tuesday. You looked up and smiled, and it wasn't anything cheesy. I didn't look into your eyes and know. You looked up and smiled, then you cracked a joke about Helen Keller, and I laughed until I cried. You sat there with me and rubbed my back and snickered in my ear, breathing against my neck, and then it was cheesy. Then, I knew.
I don't think you loved me yet. That's not surprising, though. I don't think I loved me, either.
The day you fell in love with me is your own story to tell.
But the day you told me you loved me, it was a Monday. It was storming down outside, and I was hiding in the closet. You opened the door, saw me, started to laugh and then you sat down next to me, put an arm around my shoulder, and started to talk. You talked and talked and talked until you didn't realize you were doing so anymore. Then your filter fell away and you started to talk about me, and then you said it. The earth didn't shift, gravity didn't turn off for a moment. But my stomach did flip, and my palms did sweat, and my hands did shake, and when then thunder stopped clapping, you kissed me on the forehead and swept away without another word.
You had already spoken enough for the both of us.
The day you broke my heart doesn't deserve a name. You sat down on my bed and fiddled with my hands and said something about it being too much, too intense, overwhelming, you have to get your priorities straight, get your head on straight for college, you didn't plan for this, you parents would be furious if they found out, or if you let this screw up your scholarship to Harvard. I bit my lip, nodded, ushered you out of my room. Then I turned off my lights and curled up under the covers. My pillow still smelt like you.
I didn't really do anything for a year after that. But hey. You had enough going on that I didn't have to.
The day I left that damn town, it was a Friday. I got into my purple mini-van, turned up the stereo, and didn't look back.
The day I came back was a Tuesday. I came back with a college degree, five pounds, and two failed relationships behind me. None of it really mattered.
I left again on a Wednesday. The plane was to Philadelphia, where they had bells and people who didn't know me. It was going to be perfect.
I saw you again the next day. You were older, tired-looking, and just as beautiful as the day I first saw you. (Not really, of course. But to me, it was true.) You smiled so big it looked like it had to hurt, and you hugged me and didn't let go for ten minutes.
The day you told me you loved me, it was another Monday. You looked into my eyes and said it, and nothing changed. I was still five pounds heavier, and you still had wrinkles and a few premature gray hairs. But I smiled and told you that the sun was still there, and you kissed me.
I kissed you back, and it wasn't perfect. But you weren't perfect, and I wasn't either, and that's okay.