This isn't my story to tell.
But it's fallen to me to tell it to you.
And I guess that you need to know.
There was no wind, I remember that.
And consequently I could hear the flutter of the robin's wings when you stepped on a twig and frightened it away.
I felt small among the tall trees, but at the same time as if I were an extension of them.
I remember knowing you would understand.
I lay on my back and looked up at the clouds, and I wondered if every afternoon were like this for you.
I was softly melancholy, there among the leaves. It's so quiet in the woods. But far away I heard an engine pass, and up among the clouds I saw an airplane go swiftly by, leaving water vapor in its wake. And I understood your reasons -- why you do what you do. Why you're gone so much.
Everything seemed so clearly defined -- clean, with crisp, sharp edges.
It was a perfect autumn day, and you surprising me like that should have ruined it -- but somehow you only made it better. Like you always do.
You hadn't been here again for long, and you knew you were leaving soon, but you still came out to find me.
"Ella?" you said. "Ella?"
"I'm here," I said, and together we went back to the house.
This isn't my story to tell -- the story of how we met and fell in love -- this isn't my story to tell. Because it's not a story yet -- it's an autobiography of us.
And it isn't my story to tell, but nonetheless I am telling it.
Written lying out on the back porch. Somewhere between drabble, oneshot, and aborted longfic.