I love these nights.
The dark, misty nights. The ones where the rain falls, but you don't get wet, because it is a misty rain. The ones where the mist is so thick you can swirl your hand around and almost see the mist swirling right along with it. The ones where when the mist hits your skin, you feel relieved, renewed, free. It is almost as if the rain washes away your secrets, and leaves you, in the dark, with nothing to hide. And suddenly the world was at peace.
It was on these nights that I would meet him.
Maybe that's the reason I enjoyed them so much. True, I liked them for the afore mentioned characteristics, but when you love something, there is one thing that shines out over all the rest. You like birds because they're colorful, but you love their singing. You like popcorn for the taste, but mostly for the guilty pleasure you receive from eating it. Well, he was my bird's song, my guilty pleasure. He was the main reason I enjoyed those nights so much.
Sure, before I met him, I loved those nights. They were the nights I could escape from everything wrong in my life. The only time I had to forget everything from school to my nonexistent love life. They were the only time I had to myself. I told him that. That's part of the reason we met on those nights. Because he knew I loved them so much, and all he wanted to do was be with me. That was enough for him.
So, when we first began talking, he did just that, though I didn't notice it at the time. When I explained my favorite book, a week later, he came to me and we began to discuss it. I was delighted. It was the first time in my life I had someone to really talk to. He wasn't like my other 'friends.' For one, he was a secret. A rich, wonderful secret I kept to myself.
Just like those nights. I'm not entirely sure why we had to keep everything a secret. If I had thought about it then, I would have thought he was ashamed of me. But all I could think about was him. The way we would dance in the mist. The way he would twirl me around and lift me up, spinning. We would dance until our feet hurt and our breath was spent. He'd set me down and lean his forehead against mine, whispering the same thing.
"You're lovely when you're flushed."
It was the best compliment I had ever had.
But then again, it was the only compliment I'd ever had.
Sure, I've had compliments. But not like that. They were, 'you're a marvelous student' and 'what a great person you are.' But none of them made me feel special inside. Proud, but not special. Not the way he made me feel. He made me feel like I was the only person in the world that mattered. Even when we were just friends, he always made me feel as if I were the only person that mattered to him. It didn't matter that once he walked out the door, someone else might be the most important. What mattered was then, only then. It was the only time I felt alive.
Besides those nights. Those wonderful, glorious nights when he would lead me down the street, holding my hand and whispering sweet nothings in my ear. Occasionally, he would kiss me. My heart would beat so loudly I was sure that he could hear it. But all he did was smile and continue walking, my hand still linked with his.
I loved those nights with all my heart. After dinner, I'd rush outside, hoping and praying with everything I had that it was misty. Disappointment was often and happiness was scarce, but it didn't matter. Even if I went three weeks without seeing him, one night would make it al better again. One splendid night walking the streets, dancing in the mist, and kissing in the moonlight was all it took for me to be happy for the next year if need be. I was my happiest, and nothing could change that.
Until the day my happy world came crashing down on me.
Until the day he disappeared. It was all rather sudden. No note, no whisper of goodbye, no stolen kiss. Not even a hint of farewell. But he left on one of those nights. I think that that's a sign in and of itself. And I guess that somewhere deep inside of me, I knew he was gone. I just wouldn't admit it to myself. I kept up hope. Sometimes, the heart knows things, but doesn't tell us. My heart did that, and I'm thankful for it.
But that was the past, and this is now.
I hate that phrase. Why shouldn't we dwell on the past? The past is what made us what we are today. It built us, made us stronger, tougher, wiser. Our past is the only way we can be happy. It's like a favorite book, or a favorite song, something you look at or listen to while you're upset. Something that makes you smile. And the things that don't, you simply don't look at. It's your choice.
Just as it was my choice never to move on.
Even if I wanted to, I don't think that I could have. Every time I would so much as look at a man, his face would flash across my mind and the huge hole in my heart would rip a little big bigger. Everything I do reminds me of him. Walking in the streets, dancing, but especially those nights. Soon, I just stopped going out. I keep to myself. I lock myself up in my room, reading and writing whatever novel I am working on at the moment.
None of them are finished.
As much as I want to, I can't seem to give them an unhappy ending. But the hole in my heart prevents me from writing the happy ending my characters deserve. As cheesy as it sounds, I don't think I will finish them if my happy ending doesn't come as well. It's cliché and stupid, but I still believe it. Something tugs at me, telling me that my story, that my life, isn't over yet.
Yet, I feel as if it is. Nothing really matters anymore. Food has lost its taste. Colors don't seem quite as bright. Nothing is the same without him. It's almost as if the world just stopped existing altogether. I never see my friends. Life itself seems to have stopped going on. I feel empty, broken, and worst of all, alone.
So as I sit in this stupid room, staring at these stupid walls, glancing occasionally at the clock, I hate myself. I know what I have become, and I hate it. But I can't help it. It's like someone has taken over my life and now I'm just watching what's going on/ I feel so detached from the world. I know this, but I'm not doing anything about it. Some things we can't help. Some things are meant to be.
Which is why he came back. He showed up on my doorstep, dirty, ragged, and as beautiful as ever. I welcomed him in with open arms, crying and whispering nonsense to heaven. I sat with him on the couch, crying, kissing him, listening to his story. He had a good reason for disappearing, one not meant for this story, but maybe for another. He explained, I understood, and everything was right. I was whole. The hole in my heart healed and life went on. It was during the middle of the night that I realized something though.
There was a light mist coming down from the heavens.
I wrote this to help a friend with his.
R
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Please?