Disclaimer: I own these words, not Twilight.
I pretend.
It's easy.
I pretend he gives me what I want, what I need.
Even though he's the only one to ever approach such fulfilling.
And he isn't him.
He doesn't make me flutter.
Nothing of me flutters around him.
Only him.
But I pretend just the same.
Because I can't not.
Because he's gone.
Because he never really was.
I pretend for years.
On and on and on, always pretending.
Sometimes it works.
Sometimes I even believe it.
But then it breaks around me, crack and fissure and shatter.
And I remember.
Remember the pretending.
Remember a time without it.
Remember flutters.
Remember how he caused them.
And remember he's not here.
Or there.
Or anywhere.
He never was.
But he is.
It's not enough.
Not anymore.
I stop pretending.
My wings don't flutter, but they're free.
I can almost convince myself it's enough.
For now, it's alright.
I don't flutter.
Nor do I pretend.
Between them, I find adequacy.
Outside of it, I still dream of flutters.
Of him.
In it all, I crave escape.
Give in, pick somewhere.
Work toward it, buy my way there.
The wings lift me, stomach shaking and squirming.
So close to his flutter.
But nowhere near close enough.
I settle, smile, gaze.
Anticipation.
I'm excited, surprised by it.
A voice. Loud. Crackling.
Speakers. Instructing, reassuring, informing.
Polite, distantly smiling, professional.
Flutter.