He wants to say it's easy, but it's not.
Loving her is not easy. Loving her silently is even worse.
Loving her silently is keeping your fingers from brushing on her hips and preventing your lips to form the syllables that would be a new kind of freedom (a kind of freedom he is not sure it is welcome).
He thinks loving her is the hardest thing he has ever done (he also thinks not telling her is not far behind).
He loved her in the morning, when her hair was messy and she was so grumpy before her cup of tea.
He loved her when her eyes sparkled from a new discovery, a new boundary that was left behind, a new limit set ahead.
He loved her when she was drunk and pointing at stars, telling their stories to him, making a billion of particles connect in an intricate system of enemies and lovers and lost mythology.
He loved her when she was not-very-loveable, her words sharp and her movements brusque and the distance between them seemed barely manageable.
Most of all, he chose her. That's the thing. The new love is cute, yes it is, it is lovely, but that's it.
He didn't love her with the new type of love, the type of love that wasn't felt. Love isn't kind; love is brutal. Love is soul crushing. Love is pain. Love is demanding more of the same and even after you had enough of it you can't say no because you wouldn't live without it. He loved her with a primitive kind of love: he loved her sharp edges and her messy sentences and her mistakes and he loved the fact that she was there being so inextricably genuine in her veracious heart and he fought everyday the thought of letting go because he couldn't, he couldn't stop loving her. He chose everyday to love her.
I love you today.
I love you today.
I love you today.
That's the thing about love: you don't choose when to start or when to stop, but you choose to continue.
Love is looking down on a peaceful lake and thinking "oh I might swim later" because it looks so peaceful and quiet and it looks like everything people told you to look for, but when you jump you can't keep your head out of the water, because the undercurrent is dragging you and the water is so cold and it is so much deeper than you thought and you are being dragged down but for some reason you don't fight it. You don't fight it. You can't fight it. It's all around you and you reject the idea of fighting it as soon as it crosses your mind, it may kill you but you won't fight it.
You can't breathe but you won't fight it.
Loving her is choosing to drown everyday, non-stop, his lungs filling with water and the weight of his clothes pulling him down but he wouldn't fight it even if he was forced to.
And no one ever taught him that. There were classes for everything, classes for how to make a rocket land on the moon or how to make a cactus live in Antarctica but there were no classes on love and it was obvious why. Who would teach you how to drown and not ask for help? Who would teach you the perseverance necessary to not swim? Who would teach you how to love something that was imperfect and thus so unfathomable perfect, so out of scale, so out of the human capability of understanding? Who would teach you that?
He'd do anything for her. He'd die for her if she asked (but he knows that she would never, and that makes him love her more, because the prospect of living without her wherever isn't appealing). He'd travel to Mars and he'd explore the Mariana's Trench if she asked. He would have taught her how to fly if she asked.
He tried to find a cure even when she didn't ask.
But he never taught her how to fly and her wings for some reason didn't open, he didn't give her the antiserum and he didn't teach her how to fly.
And he thought all along that she was perpetual, that she would always be there, that she wouldn't fly home without him.
But he must have spent too much time under water, because she flew away and now he realizes he was always wrong.
He always thought there would be time. That her atoms would exist as long as his. But now he is holding cures and teas and gazing at mythological stars he doesn't know and she is not there to make it correct again.
He thinks there's a shift in the world's balance. He thinks a mistake's been made. He yells to God and Allah and Buddha and all the deities that would pay attention to his screams that there was an error in the plan that they must fix now. He shouts it to unmoving stars that don't whisper him stories like she did. He hates them all.
He likes logic, he always did, and the fact that this situation is illogical aggravates his despise for it. This can't be. This can't be. For a few seconds he almost convinces himself of it, when his eyes are close and there's no sound in the world and for small fragments of time he pretends she is still there. He cherishes his small pieces of nothingness more than his own life.
He hopes she is waiting for him. He hopes she is counting the minutes to see him again.
That's what he is doing at least. And he is not very patient.
He never taught her how to fly but he realizes he never taught himself how to fly, and his non-existing wings don't unfold when he jumps.
/Final notes: Okay guys, i literally wrote this in 30 minutes :P i hope it doesnt suck too bad... Anyway, like everything i write, this is sad (i really should try writing a comedy just to lighten up my recent works) and its a fitzsimmons story because otp :D Okay, its really late, i gotta sleep. Reviews would be nice, but only if you can spare a minute to write one! Okay, see ya guys!