#heatbreak

Pictures flash in Sam’s memory. Movie-reels in faded sepia. Haunting melancholies encoded in his skin. Images of you on your knees, grass-stains that persisted until morning. Pleasure coursing through his veins. The feel of your hair in his hands as he plastered his lips shut and prayed no one was exploring near where you had set up camp for the night. Luminescent bellies of fireflies that emerged at dusk and swept his mind to a distant shore.

Then you on your back, his head between your legs. The salt on your skin as he sucked on your thighs, leaving mottled red patches in his wake, and the itchy mosquito bites on your calves that he later soothed with lotion—because Sam always packed lotion (that was one of many things you’d loved to tease him about).

The softness of your stomach against his as he entered you softly, and the scent of your tears as you made love in the muggy, august air. The sweat you’d shared, bodies dewy and glistening in the moonlight. And, later on, the sparkle in your wet eyes when, tangled under the stars in your love-drunk state, you’d promised him “forever.”

A sharp pang shoots through Sam’s chest whenever he thinks about that. A rod lodging its way in his windpipe. The fear that overtook him that night led to him saying some truths the following morning that he probably should have kept to himself. Stupid things he didn’t mean. Things he wishes he could take back.

But he can’t. And he couldn’t then.

It was too late the moment he said them, his words too hurtful—too honest—and you had left. 

You had left, and for what?

To confirm his suspicions that he was never destined for happiness?

That everything he touches eventually turns to ash?

That he is doomed to end up loveless and alone?

Sam shakes his head, the memories too painful to bare, the ‘what ifs’ too hopeful to fathom.

He hadn’t wanted to hurt you, but Sam knew better than to promise forever. Because forever wasn’t his to claim. For what does forever even mean? Until the end of the world? No. He’s lived through several. Til the end of his days? That might not be that far away. Until the end of yours…? Sam didn’t want to even contemplate that. Because forever wasn’t real; it was a cruel joke people told themselves to make the fall hurt less.

And then he’d found himself panicking, ruminating about how he’d be condemning you—that he already was—just by existing.

He knew then that he had to let you go, because he loved you too much to watch you die slowly in his arms. Because that’s what would happen if you’d stayed, lest you burn up in a blaze of agony like everyone else he’s ever loved. He couldn’t chain you to him; you had a future ahead of you, one that promised wealth and happiness and connections. A Mercedes Benz. First-class flights. Shit neither of you cared about but had let infiltrate your dreams nonetheless.

Sam could see it now: you, years from now, laughing in a sunlit kitchen, someone else’s arms around your waist, another man's child in your belly. It made bile rise to his throat, thinking of anyone else being with you like that, and touching you as he does. He wanted to scream that he'd loved you first, that it should have been him there with you. But he also couldn’t deny that it was the safest option: a life without him, free from darkness.

A life you deserved. A future you’d trained and charmed for. One that promised status and would satisfy your parents’ shallow sense of self-worth, something Sam himself would never be able to satiate. One that offered opportunity and adventure, without the constant threat of damnation. He had to slam the door closed before it knocked both of you out. It was inevitable, after all. That’s just the way life goes.

So he’d been a dick; he needed you to hate him, and had pushed you away. It was the easiest way.

Two years down the road, thinking enough time had passed to anesthetize the pain, Sam tries to make amends, which results in you exchanging several messages. Surprisingly, you seem cool about it, and Sam doesn’t know how to take it. He thought he would be able to deal with it, that he was over what had happened, and that it would put his mind at rest. But he is wrong again, and it only brings up unresolved feelings. This shit never ends.

Joyriding on the back of those memories, Sam realizes that loving you is his greatest regret; you are simultaneously the best and worst thing that has ever happened to him. Because there’s no way in hell or on earth that he will ever get over you.

It's a car crash, yet he still can’t look away. So he sighs, fumbles in his pocket, pulls out his phone, and types out a message, because one last text can’t hurt, can it? As his fingers hover over ‘send,’ he looks up at the sky, and wonders whether you are up there, in that plane passing by.

His belly lights up with hope, fireflies flickering inside him, battering him from the inside out. A self-destructive habit, an age-old curse that will surely kill him one day if you don’t send someone to do it instead.

His fingers fly back over the screen, messages spilling from his gut, bursting forth in staccato rhythm.

He presses send again. And again. And holds his breath as his words float into the abyss. The feelings they contain no longer obscured by blurry nostalgia, but the painful, hopeful reality of the present.

“I love you,” the first one reads, in crisp, clear letters. But that’s not all.

“I love you,” the second repeats, because one statement is not enough; Sam always has to twist the knife deeper.

“I love you,” comes the third.

And the fourth.

The fifth …

"I love you

   I love you

     I love you

       I love you

         I love you

           I can’t stop

             I’ve always loved you and I always will

             I was wrong

           So, so wrong

         And I’m sorry

       So deeply sorry

     About what I said

   About that night

For everything.”

There’s not enough oxygen in the universe to supply Sam’s lungs as he waits for your reply. And when he sees the read receipt, followed by three little dots appearing and disappearing repeatedly at the bottom of his screen, that tumultuous swarm of hope threatens to choke him.

In his mind, he is already back beside that lake, tangled beneath the stars. He is dirty, and dishonest, but he is happy, and so are you.

This time, he doesn’t hesitate, or laugh, or brush off your remark with some snide and self-destructive statement about how the future doesn’t exist.

This time, he is ready and willing to give up forever, whatever that means.