Runaway

“Perhaps the worst thing to realise,“ she said, “is that you didn’t mean as much to someone as you thought.”

“Be the one who loves more deeply. Be the one who forgives more easily. You’ll understand, it’ll set you free. Don’t waste all of your energy keeping your heart locked up in your chest; what are you protecting it from? Love? Love is the kindest thing a human being has to offer. If you’re hurting, leave. If you choose to stay, give it all you’ve got. Regrets are the surest way to hurt yourself. Holding back because you’re scared is the surest path to regret.”

“But how can you miss someone when they are right beside you?“ She asks. “You can,” I say, “you can. When they are beside you but they are not yours. When they can leave without a moment’s notice and you do not have the right to ask them to stay.”

“How dangerous,” she thought, “to finally have something worth losing.”

“You are so afraid of rejection that you push away anyone who you grow any fondness for. And it keeps you lonely, but at least there’s consistency.”

““I hope we last. I hope we do. But if we don’t, this is how I want you to remember me: I want you to remember me curled up, listening to the sound of your heartbeat and tracing maps across your skin. Remember me laughing at your jokes, even the stupid ones. Remember me in hysterics for absolutely no reason and in tears because one time you made me so sad neither of us thought I’d recover. Remember me brave, that time you held my hand and I thought I was going to die; remember me scared and gentle and delicate and breakable - only for you though, only for you. Remember me happy, and all the ridiculous ways I tried to get your attention. Remember the way I was too stubborn to talk to you and how absolutely insane it drove the both of us. Remember all the firsts and how they were so delightful we went back for seconds and thirds and fourths. Remember the songs you couldn’t stop listening to and the childish dreams you allowed yourself about the future. If it’s any consolation I allowed myself to have them too. If it comes to it I don’t want you to remember the ending. Remember the beginning. Remember the first time you knew.”

“So what?“ she said. “Maybe I wanted to feel love. Maybe I wanted it to burn me. Maybe I wanted to hurt, for once, from a good thing; to feel so much of everything that it hurt me. Maybe I wanted to give in to every emotion that I’d ever felt, let it take me to the woods and shoot me in the chest. Maybe I was tired of fighting to maintain my numbness, tired of fighting against vulnerability. "Maybe I was sick of being ambivalent, of being sceptical, of not believing in love - or at least the notion that it could last. Maybe all I wanted, all I really wanted, was for someone to knock me out so I could forget every little piece of cynicism I’d ever swallowed, and allow myself to be consumed by everything kind and good and light.”

“A year has passed and you still think of her. But you no longer know if the “her” in your mind is the “her” in real life. Memories come in flashes. The way she laughed so hard one time, she fell off the bed. The time she cried at a Christmas advert on TV. You remember the first present she ever got you, a small music box from Venice. You remember her eyes wide, in anticipation, and then in relief: “I love it." You remember smoothing her wet hair from her face that time she came home in the rain; mascara smudged, running down both cheeks. You called her panda and she laughed. You remember her laugh. You remember the nervousness at meeting her family for the first time. Then, stepping into her childhood bedroom, and everything starting to make sense. You remember pointing to a box on top of her bookshelf. "What’s that?” you asked. “Memories,” she said. “It’s a box full of memories.” “Can I see?” you asked. “No,” she said, “they’re things from the past. And that’s where they belong.” Later, you realised that she meant they were memories of the people she had loved. She’d always amazed you with the way that she could so easily move on. “The past is the past,” she liked to say. Now, you are her past. And she is yours. The only difference is that you still think of her. And you cannot help but wonder if she ever thinks of you, or whether you are simply a part of the box at the top of her shelf.”

“It’ll be weird seeing her again. It’ll be like revisiting a memory that you thought you’d forgotten. Her hair will be longer, or shorter, her hair will have changed; hair always does. Her eyes will be the same. Hearing her voice will be like going back to the place you used to live and noticing the new curtains. Being close to her will be strange. She’ll say something like, “you look well,” and you’ll reply with a, “thanks, you too.” And it’ll feel like death, like an iron fist around your heart. And then she’ll point to your shirt and say, “is that new?” and you won’t have the heart to say you bought it seven months ago after she left, so instead you say, “I haven’t worn it around you before.” When she emits a small laugh you’ll feel the tiniest ounce of pride. She still finds you funny. When she’s telling you about her new life you’ll find your mind wandering into places you didn’t think mattered anymore. Places like, was she in love now and was she being treated well? Places like, did she ever miss you, and in and amongst all of her living did she ever consider coming back?”

“We were always going to say goodbye, weren’t we?” “Yeah. I think so.“ “I loved you though. I loved you so much.” A pause. “I know. I know. “I loved you too.””

““I think I wait for people to hurt me,” she said quietly, “and when they do I feel a certain smugness at being right. And, after that, I just feel pain.”