You never saw how anyone could be able to love you. And especially not her.
You're darkness and bitterness and you make all the wrong choices, and she's compassionate and brave and altogether good, in a way that few people are anymore. You want to pick her up and place her somewhere where nothing can ever hurt her, but at the same time you want to run a far as way as you can, so that she can't hurt you.
Because she's going to. You know she is. She's too damn good for you, and you know it, and she knows it and everyone else knows it. You're so bloody in love with her, and it's not going to end happily for you, because there's no way in hell she'll ever feel that way about you.
Which is good. It's for the best. You don't deserve her.
You repeat this over and over to yourself, as you pour mouthfuls of golden liquor down your throat, the slight buzzing sensation growing with every glass you empty.
It's guilty moments like these that you catch yourself imagining that your life were a movie. It would be so much easier then, you think. Sure, there'd be hardship and tragedies, but that's alright, you've gone through enough of those to last you several lifetimes. But if this were fiction, if it were a story, someone would be able to mend what is broken inside you. You'd scream and cry and everything would be dark and miserable, but then you'd stumble into someone - accidentally- at a bookstore, maybe, or in the streets, and you'd connect, and she'd teach you how to laugh and you would fall in love, and you'd still have scars, sure, both inside and out, but they'd be almost invisible. Part of your past, not your present.
But your life is not a movie, and the broken is not beautiful. You're too smart to imagine that you might find love, but too dumb to keep from hoping anyway.
And that, you think, as you laugh - humorlessly, bitterly- is the bottom line, really. Hope. The one, shattering, bone-crushing, heart-breaking emotion that you can't seem to shake.
The bartender is staring at you, you can feel his eyes assessing you, and you salute him scornfully before slamming your glass down on the table and getting off your stool, slowly making your way to the door, and making the decision to leave your silly hopes and dreams with the empty glass on the counter.
It's chilly outside, and you sorta wish you'd brought a jacket. But the alcohol in your blood is warming you, and honestly? You don't really care if you get sick or not.
You walk around aimlessly for a while, before, suddenly, you're standing in the one spot you'd rather avoid as much as thinking about. It's not really very romantic, but you know it so well, the concrete beneath your shoes, the brick walls, the yellow lamplight. You'd sat on that bench over there, smoking cigarettes and laughing, when you'd realized you were in love with her.
That was a long time ago, though, you think bitterly. And yet you don't stop your feet from moving towards the bench, don't stop your hands from expertly fumbling for a cigarette and lighting it, nor your eyes from closing, or the mental picture from forming once again.
It's really quite tragic, how masochistic you are.
"Bad habit, that" a voice says, and at first you smile, because you'd been thinking about when you met, and she'd said those words, but then you stiffen, because it's not your imagination, and someone is sitting down on the bench. You open your eyes slowly- berating your heart for running amok in your chest- and turn your head to look at her, your throat strangely tight.
You do the only thing you can think of, really, because you'd been reliving a memory, and history tends to repeat itself.
You offer her a cigarette.
Which she takes, of course, as you'd known she would, and lights with the old lighter she always carries on her - the one her granddad had used during the war, and which had ultimately saved his life, when a bullet hit his chest, right where the lighter was. It's pretty unrealistic, you think, but it's a nice story, and the lighter does have a dent.
She once told you that the lighter is her excuse for smoking, because such a tough beast has to be used.
You'd told her she was mental. She'd shrugged and lit a cigarette.
"Aren't you cold?" she asks, and you shrug, because you guess you are.
You're not surprised when you feel a rough scarf being wrapped around your neck, the scent of her surrounding you.
"You're an awful cliché" you tell her, and her laugh makes your lips twitch.
"Only for you" she says, and you think you hear something in her voice, though you don't know what, because you're not always very deductive, you're lost and mental and broken.
"Look," she begins, "look, I..." she trails of, and you're almost confused, because she's not the type to choke.
"I love you"
For a second you blink, before you realize that the words came from your mouth, and you don't know if it's the alcohol or just because you need to tell her the truth before she breaks the last part of you that isn't already broken. You can't quite bring yourself to regret saying it, because it's the right thing to do, and you need to start making some proper choices if you ever want to pull yourself together enough to move on.
She doesn't answer, and you're afraid to look at her. You want to savor this one moment, before your entire future inevitably crumbles, before your hope is crushed.
You pull yourself together though, because you've always been stubborn, and that almost makes you brave. So you look at her.
She's staring at you, and there's something in her eyes - the same thing that you noticed in her voice - and you don't know what it is, and your heart's hammering and you don't know what to do. So you start blabbering, because you're awkward and embarrassed and it's the only obvious solution to whatever the hell is happening here.
"Okay, look, I know what you're gonna say, and that's totally fine, alright? I get it. It's just, well, I wanted to tell you, because I think you should know, and it's the truth and I have to start making better choices and I'm giving honesty a try and it's probably rubbish but maybe I'll be a better person and - "
But you have to stop there, because she's kissing you, and you are absolutely clueless as to why.
Probably to shut you up.
It's not very long, and when she pulls back, you repeat yourself (you wonder briefly how many times you've said this to her, but it's probably a lot).
"You're an awful cliché."
She smiles brilliantly, "So are you".
Then she kisses you again and you're a bit more prepared this time, though not for the passion or the sensations in your body or the way your mind seems to just turn off.
But when you do resurface, and you have a moment of clear thought, you think, that maybe you have a shot at happiness here, and maybe you wont screw it up this time. Because you got the girl, she chose you. You're still broken and indecisive and stubborn and inappropriate and you make a lot of bad choices. But, apparently, you made some good ones too, because this girl - woman, whatever - loves you, and you're gonna fight your damned best to keep her.
And you think, privately, as her lips catch yours again, that you don't much mind being an awful cliché.
I just want to thank whoever reads this jumbled-up mess of words to the end. It really means the world!