the funny thing about love is… it gives her hope. and once she has hope, she has everything and nothing all at once. to think about that one second that the person she loved, the one for whom she’d give her life for and sacrifice everything she had; to think about the only real thing she’d ever known disappearing into the night, a passenger on fate's train… it was the worst form of torture she could imagine.
and who was she, even? a girl, a shape you’d cross on the street, never thinking twice about where she was going, forgetting her face the moment she walked by, smoke wafting through the thin air. she was a being who occupied a mundane space, but this fact meant nothing to her; she would forever be the same as she always was; believing and knowing that she had a reason and a person for which she existed. and her love bends and twists her mind, her thoughts, and shapes her into who she really is.
but oh. that love. and that terrifying thought that what was hers could be ripped away from her. an errant brake light. an unexpected accident. anything, really.
it created a tumultuous sense of being that was so naively lovely and yet so unbearably difficult, that she was a constant sense of earthquake, the land threatening to split open a gaping hole inside of her. it fed on her worst fears. it soaked through her paltry skin, enveloping every crevice, every contortion; a silent darkness within.
and yet, there it was. willing and real and bursting. filling her with happiness and content and a sense of being. and so she knew that it was worth all the pain and worry, because it was, in fact, what made her life worth living. it was love. the brush of his lips on her cheek. the sly wink from the corner of the room, filled with both friends and strangers. the warmth radiating from within.
always present. always careful. always full.