#castlewrites

I wanted to make something that’d explain just how much I admire that brilliant head of yours, but I kept falling short. I tried to write some artsy ass poem or make a graphic that would’ve been awesome and wholesome and just perfect for what I was trying to accomplish, but nothing really worked. So while my grand plans fell flat big time, hear me out.

While the extent of your imagination can’t be narrowed down to simply characters, and there’s some that are missing even from this (that I couldn’t get in simply because there wasn’t an even number of people), I think it does give a glimpse into the big picture. A glimpse into what your head is capable of, in and outside of the writing field. Because I’ve seen your makeup dozens of times and I’ve seen the eye you have for all things visual -- and I’m not going to even touch your writing here because we both know you’re capable of giving me the chills with lines that are just right.

You doubt yourself a lot, be it about writing or something else, but you really have no reason to. Because aside from all the other traits of you that I admire so damn much (and probably flail about to the point where it gets annoying), it never ceases to amaze me how many stories are in that head of yours. You’re brilliant. And I don’t even know how to say that without it ending up sounding way less than it’s meant to.

As I started to write this and counted how many birthdays have passed, I realized it’s been four years of you being in my life, but in all honesty it might as well have been forty. Four years of you and your beautiful face, and already it’s like we’ve known each other forever. Just goes to show what kind of magical human beings even a hellsite like Tumblr can hold.

For four years I’ve had the privilege of watching you grow and become who you are today, and in true grandma-like fashion it makes me so goddamn proud. Proud of what you’ve become, and prouder still that I’ve been a part of your life through it. You’ve grown from a girl into a woman (as cliche as it is, it’s true), and it’s... Wow. You’re wow. Looking back, I love every single tangle we’ve had on the way because it shows just how long we’ve come, be it together or apart.

This past year was the hardest I’ve had to go through in a while, and just like many changes in my life in the years that have passed, I couldn’t have done it without you. Getting to come see you for three whole weeks was the absolute highlight of my year, and there’s not a thing I would change about it (aside from the temperature levels because you literally live in Satan’s asshole ok). I even miss you hitting me in the middle of the night and burping in my face, and I don’t know what could be a stronger sign of true love than that, tbh.

So here, a few thousand kilometers away, I raise a glass to all your years on this planet, and to the of years to come (on this planet and probably in the outer space because let’s be real, you’re probably from there to begin with). I love you.

“Hi.”

Who knew that one word would be enough to get Max worry about his heart giving up on him after sixty years of pounding like a tightly wired drum. He knows he looks old and as she stands there looking straight at him he feels even older. He’s standing on the porch of his house with her on the driveway like it wouldn’t be strange for her to appear like this.

“You look good,” she says, like his hair isn’t streaked with gray and the shadows under his eyes more than just the result of years of sleep deprivation, and he can feel his stomach’s knots turn tighter than they’ve been in years.

He tries to smile in return, to push his aching chest to the back burner and focus on what’s in front of him. He hums and mutters something close to, “liar,” but can’t tell if he has his attention more on her or the fact that where they once were supposed to grow old together, now he’s the one who’s grown old all alone. He can’t force himself to sound light, but if there’s something he’s learned over the years, it’s to hide whatever might be underneath his skin.

He knows better than to stare but does so nevertheless. She hasn’t aged a day -- a detail he should know better than to be surprised by by now -- and the only thing he can truly consider different is her hair. He’s seen it long and short, dark more often than light, and now the shoulder-length crop and soft waves of it make his chest constrict. Were it anyone else he would feel ashamed for staring at her like this, but he can’t bring himself to care.

It’s the patter of two small feet and the squeal of something incoherent that break the spell of the silence that’s fallen over them. Alani grabs Max by his leg; small hands fastening tight to the fabric as she wills for him to pick her up. She’s a whirlwind of wild curls and a pair of eyes almost as black as coal, fussing about until Max has his arm positioned like a seat underneath her. Alani grips Max’s shirt and smiles with her sparse teeth showing, only then focusing on Isla who’s still standing a good twenty feet from the porch. There’s a silence that hugs around them as the girl in Max’s arms considers the woman Max himself could recognize in a hundred lifetimes over.

“You look just like my Grandma,” she says, her smile now smaller. And like he would need the pain that comes with it, Alani turns her eyes to Max and looks at him with all the childish naivety there is left in the world, searching for confirmation. “Doesn’t she, Grandpa?”

For a second Max can see it all unfold; the realization to hit Alani, or the truth to somehow tumble out of his mouth like well-guarded secrets sometimes do; but Isla is faster. Her smile is soft and warm, and Max hates how long it has been since he’s seen it. He tries not to think about how that same smile is what he saw her give to the bundle she’d had in her arms all those years back.

YEARS PASS, we grow older, grumpier and bitterer, but some things just don’t change – you’re still the most brilliant person I’ve ever met.

I started with the intentions of making you a birthday bash again, but considering that this year’s been a mess and basically everything I did i just posted right away, that wasn’t really an option this time round. And besides, it would’ve been WAY too predictable, am I right? So instead I’ve mailed you something, and while I have my doubts about whether or not it’ll make it all the way to you in time, it’s in either case on its (probably slow as fuck) way. I know it’s not much, but I hope it’ll still AT LEAST get a smile out of you.

But because what would your birthday be without SOMETHING made just for the day, I still have a couple of things coming up. Just a few, definitely not 24 this time, but still something very much intended for this day and to celebrate the brilliance that is you. For once I’ll try to keep my gushing short, and just end this with I love you. Because it’s very important, and I probably say that too often too, but it’s ok. At least today.

( This is also my very formal promise that when I do get to actually be present when it’s your birthday, I owe you as many drinks as birthdays have passed with us on two sides of the damn globe. )

He’s never tried to explain it to anyone, and in a way it shows.

He tries to find the right words with his eyes cast to the horizon; at the sun that is about to dive behind the sea. His hands are clasped together, gently rubbing the stump of his ring finger, and moving on to the little finger that’s faced the same fate. She knows the story of those both, how the axe he now carries is a testament to the bloody cruelty of his past as well as the future that followed, but knows not to stare. They still ache, sometimes, he told her, like the fingers would still be there. She hasn’t asked if the ghosts of two fingers are heavier to carry than the memory of cracking open the skull of his father’s, but if she did he wouldn’t blame her. Sometimes he forgets, too.

Barrow licks his lips and traces the line of a faded tattoo that runs over his knuckles. Maybe she knows. Maybe she knows the need, the want, that has swirled inside him like a restless wave. The secrets he’s carried cannot be called secrets, when there are times when he doesn’t even remember them.