No one has ever bothered to mention that sometimes, maybe once every couple of generations, life (or love) becomes a curse.
The rusty ache of love (or life) was so familiar to her. He never knew. She thought she said it to him. He thought he knew it all.
She, as inflated with expectation as everyone around her, announced to the world one dusky glacial November evening that she’s going to fly. With flashing eyes and a heart as full as it would ever be, she explained to the world that life (or love) would not make sense if she does not seek that explanation.
He thought he knew. She thought he lied.
The world fell silent and still, frozen at odd angles. Those of love…life.
She was there. You could see her. You could see it in her: forms of beauty that would make most people in the world gasp for breath were hardly blinked at by the world. He saw it. He loved it.
He was there. She could see him. You could see it. He was the object of the world’s attention. He wasn’t the best looking, they all knew it, but he had a wide capacity for fun. He was a notorious lover…or so she’s been told by the world.
On that day, they saw her. They agreed that she was everything fine the universe made possible: With the humor in her raised brows that drew him in, and the knowing self-possession of her stare that convinced him she was special. They did, but he was late.They only saw it through his eyes, but he still saw it late.
She flew. He watched. The future belonged to them, or so it seemed. They would go to that land, where everything still seemed possible, if twenty degrees cooler.
Notice how I have used them interchangeably, the two words, life and love: Why? because neither of them would make sense without the other, or rather if one of them is there, then the other is present.
But then, he read it. He thought he knew. She knew he didn’t. Read it. Feel it. Let go.
She never said that. He never knew.