she had spent an absolutely mundane evening with him — had a simple dinner that, to her, tasted like a wedding feast and a cup of coffee, which to her mind was probably what the greek gods called nectar. it was, as it had always been, magical.
it rained, a thin sheet of silver, filming everything with gloss, duplicating each lightsource until there were stars on the ground, on cars, in puddles, even on his eyelashes. she felt like a fairy then, and had he three wishes, or three hundred, she would have gladly granted him each one.
but magic, magic is an illusion.
it’s frightening, in a way. somehow, she had this feeling that while navigating in their own world, he’d find that door she cannot see and then in a flash, the door would open and then he’d be gone forever. then what? would she find that same door? she fears that for her, it’d just be the same world, haunted by echoes of their laughter, and shadows resembling him.
love had always been like that for her. dramatically wonderful and dreadfully scary at the same time.
tortured by the anguish of thoughts that he would find that exit door, she struggles to find it, make it out of that place before he does. but she is unwilling to leave, this was where she wanted to be. for each time she swells with pride, because he looks at her with love, possession and engagement.
groping, she chanced upon a knob. with her hand on the door, once more she shouts, "i love you, and my love for you makes any other life a lie" and hopes that he hears her before the door opens and closes in silence.
One Comment
waaaah.. how sad.. *sniff*
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