Well…I'm not dead, so horray? *cue meek, awkward smile of shame*
I'm so sorry I've been really MIA. Real life is kicking my ass and school has absolutely no chill. :( I'm actually supposed to be doing school work and studying for my exams; but whoops here I am, and I'm the Queen of Procrastination, and it's my birth month so why the hell not?, and this has been sitting in my hard drive for a while now, so...
Sidenote: On the topic of my birth month, I just thought of a random (rather narcissistic) challenge – if anybody can remember the exact date of my birthday (and I have mentioned it a handful of times in some of my stories); let me know, give me a prompt, and I'll write you a oneshot. :) I can't promise you anything right away, and I've yet to finish my gifts to americanbread and my beta Ellie, but it'd be cool to flesh out another person's ideas.
Anyway, I'm pretty sure this has been the shortest oneshot that I've written so far. These are basically my thoughts about love, in a weird story format. I hope you enjoy.
Actual Note: AU, so naturally a bit OOC. I wasn't able to send it to either of my betas so all mistakes are mine.
Disclaimer: I'm just playing around with JP's characters.
Synopsis: This is the story of how Max had searched for love, and how it found her. AU. Oneshot.
Despite my parents separating when I was eight years old, I couldn't stop the romanticist inside of me, rooted deep in my soul.
Only two people in this world knew of this. My best friend since forever, Fang, told me it was admirable; how my parents' lack of love never lessened mine. The other person who knew, our friend Iggy, said it was 'cute'. It was every bit as condescending as it sounds, but who would really take a 20-year old drunk confessing their deepest desire seriously?
I guess I had Disney to blame – or thank, whichever way you look at it. Born from that happily-ever-after seed planted in susceptible little Max's mind, every rom-com that followed in my adolescence was to blame too.
I wanted the whole shebang.
I wanted to meet Him in one of my classes – the Guy who would sit next to me in class and ask if he could borrow a pen because he'd 'forgotten one'. I wanted to meet Him by chance. Perhaps we'll both be stranded in a quant hole-in-the-wall coffee shop due to the rain, or He'll ask if he could sit with me because all the other seats were taken. I wanted to meet Him on the train to work, where we'll laugh about something or other that happened on the ride and he'll ask for my number before I get off at my stop.
I wanted that grand love story that I can tell over and over and never lose the thrill of retelling it.
When I was 8, I had all these ideas.
I told Fang my 15-year plan. That I'd marry at the age of 26 in the same cathedral my parents were wed, and I'd have the reception by the beach. Fang would be my 'Man of Honor', even though I should probably get my little sister as my Maid of Honor, because as my best friend he would be the perfect person to help plan my wedding with. My husband and I would move to the city and live in a cozy apartment together; and by the age of 29, I'd have my first child. Fang told me that I was planning too far ahead, that I would have to date someone and become boyfriend and girlfriend with them first. Of course he was right.
When I was 16, I decided to chase this dream.
Sam was a great guy, the first guy who's ever shown serious interest in me (not including cat-calling assholes or douche bags in our grade). He was on the soccer varsity in our school and was active on the student council. We dated for our entire junior year of high school; and if you ask me if I regret losing my virginity to him, I'd tell you no. We loved each other – I would never negate that – but at 16, I learned that I didn't love myself enough. Fang thought I was insane to compare myself to all the other girls who would flirt with Sam. Thankfully Sam never heard any of my jealous spiels that I so often ranted to my best friend. At the time, all my insecurities seemed like the most important thing – how I was too tall for my age, too skinny, too nonchalant and abrasive. Not like all the other girls who were petite, and curvy, and cute with their flirty come-ons. I just wasn't 'enough' for Sam, and at the same time, he wasn't enough for me.
Somehow the prize wasn't as great as the chase was, and I broke up with Sam half a semester into our senior year. As my friend Nudge had wisely put it, I was sparing both our feelings this way. How could I love Sam wholly when I didn't even completely love myself?
When I was 19, I was convinced I loved Him, this man named Dylan.
He was Prince Charming incarnate – perfect blonde hair, bright turquoise eyes, and a heart-stopping smile that could make panties drop. Fang once joked that Dylan must always coincidentally come fresh from a photo shoot every time he sees him. I know my jaw dropped at the sight of him on more than one occasion.
As a sophomore in college, I couldn't help but feel a little bit pressured that this was only the second guy who I've actually seriously dated in three years. On my last teen year, I felt like time was running out. I was still trying to follow my 15-year plan and my designated 'dating period' was now down to five years.
I was quick to say that I loved Dylan. I often assured my friends that I did. He made me feel loved, cared for, and cherished. He made me feel like a princess, and he was my prince. We never had that 'spark' that Sam and I had, but that was okay too. Dylan and I didn't need anything else but love.
We didn't even last half a year together because apparently all we had in common was love.
I now knew that I was more in love with the idea of being in love, rather than actually loving Dylan. Here was this wonderful, handsome guy who found me beautiful and funny, so why couldn't we work things out? Why shouldn't we be together? It was expected of us; it was convenient to love someone who seemed right for you. I should have listened to Fang, who had said in the beginning that I was dating Dylan for all the wrong reasons, but Fang never said 'I told you so'. When Dylan and I broke up, Fang came over to my apartment and we watched You've Got Mail and Runaway Bride and Notting Hill and a plethora of other 90's rom-coms; and we stuffed our faces with ice cream until dawn, even if we've seen these together about a hundred times before.
When I was 22, I finally stopped looking for love and noticed what was right in front of me.
Life is funny that way.
Ever since I was a little girl, I'd made all these plans about who, what, where, when, how; every detail of how my love story will be written when in reality, we don't get to choose who we fall in love with. It was only then that I figured out why it's called falling in love.
Fang and I weren't strolling in a park surrounded by rose bushes with the moonlight shining down on us or taking a night drive alone with our favorite songs blasting on the stereo when it happened.
I had curled up against his side during one of our movie nights; and he held me close in his strong, wiry arms; and I suddenly was awash with the feeling of finally being exactly where I should be, the terrifying feeling of falling but anticipating that I was falling right into the arms of where I belonged.
Looking back now, all I was looking for with Sam was the 'spark' and all I was looking for with Dylan was love, but I found with Fang everything else in between I hadn't known I already had.
No, I didn't feel that heart-pounding moment when our eyes first met; and we didn't have that romantic build up filled with sexual tension and loaded gazes from across distances; and he didn't choose some special location on the momentous occasion when he asked me to be his girlfriend.
But the magic was having breakfast together every day before classes, sending silly texts at the most inappropriate times, exchanging shallow thoughts and our weirdest dreams in the dark during sleepovers (even though sometimes I did most of the talking), him holding my hand as we crossed the street, knowing what the other is thinking with a single look, practically living together in my apartment because I always had food, and staying in his arms to be swallowed by his embrace when I'm having a particularly bad day.
People always talk about having this 'spark', and while Fang and I did have it in the beginning of our relationship, it had fizzled out into the feeling of embers in a hearth. I learned that love is not always this exhilarating adventure that rom-coms make them out to be. Sometimes it feels monotonous, and sometimes you'll miss the fireworks. But I learned that the best kind of love is the flames in your fireplace, the feeling you get when you curl up in bed together after a long day.
The feeling of coming home.
And to me, Fang was home.
Maybe it wasn't the most exciting, the most breath-taking, the most thrilling love story out there, but I finally learned that it didn't have to be. For me, it was the best love story because it was my own, the best love story I've known thus far.
fin.
Thoughts?
Also, my ask. fm is obviouslytiff. Drop by and ask me anything. :)
-Tiffany
