Work Text:
She is young and her eyes are blue. Her hair is light brown like hazel wood, and her lips are pink like rock candy. Her voice is deep, raspy, and she has a laugh like bells, like soft music.
She is tall, taller than you, and her skin is soft, smooth like salt water against cut skin, like chapstick against bleeding lips.
She is strong but gentle. She commands attention without saying a word, and oozes confidence in the way she holds her head, the way she squares her shoulders, the way she speaks knowing no one can knock her down.
She is lovely, and, likewise, she is the love of your life.
---
You are so lonely before her. Not because there is an absence of people around you, but because they simply do not see you for what you are. They are blind to your soul, blind to your heart, to your inner workings, to your hopes and fears and goals and dreams.
She isn't blind to you. You are the first person she sees, and she is the first person to see through you.
And you find, once someone has finally spotted you, that you never want to be unseen again, that you never want to be without them.
It's difficult to know if she feels the same.
There is always a line that she draws between the two of you. It is not often straight. More frequently than not, it stretches and curves, makes jagged lines and indents and concaves out of convex that allow you to get closer than you should.
She lets you come with fired eyes, dark as sapphires that, had they existed long ago, some king would have coveted and kept to himself.
Yet she does not exist then, she exists now, with you.
Sometimes she thins the line down, and you can almost touch her, can almost see her beating heart from the other side of the translucent film she puts up to keep herself safe.
Through such semitransparent light, you learn to make out the shapes of who she is, of who she has been and who she wants to be, and through such a glimmering screen, you fall in love with her.
---
There are two times that she forgets to draw the line.
The first leads to a long summer night, both of you stripped bare underneath sticking white sheets, her fingers tangled in your hair, her lips whining, begging, pleading against yours. You try to catch your breath but she steals it from you each time, a merciless quality in the blue planets of her eyes as she demands more of you against her, as soft skin presses to every free surface of your own. Her lips are cherry and her neck is stained dark purple from your efforts, and when you find her warmth, she breathes sweet breath over your face and stares you down through blissful, hooded lids as your name runs silkily off her tongue like poison, just as euphoric and stinging.
The second time leads to screaming and disgust. Her fingers do not stroke over you, but claw in hopes of hurting. Her words are venomous and they break you down to your bones, leave you raw and exposed to her unrelenting anger. You feel hated, abandoned, broken, and all used up.
She will continue to use you anyways, and you will never again threaten to leave.
After that day there is no question of who you belong to.
You get used to her affections being split two ways. Half for you, half for him. Over time, these measurements change to favor you unevenly.
You get used to it.
You lie.
You never get used to it, and it never gets easier.
---
The others learn of your sin. Slowly, by accident, and over a long period of time.
“You need to stop this,” they tell you, aghast at your actions, disgusted, “it's not fair to him.”
It's not fair to you either, but no one seems to focus on that. The fault lies with you unquestionably.
She prefers it that way, and after a while, so do you.
You like him the one time you meet him. He's surprisingly a lot like you. He's soft spoken and gentle with her, treating her like the small, fluttering, weak hearted creature she is.
He doesn't love her more than you, but he loves her enough, and so you like that and you like him and you willingly take the blame, willingly stop worrying every minute she isn't by your side or in your bed.
You eat your own heart out every night you're alone so that she can have his.
---
You try everything you know to get her to love you back.
You stroke her fragile ego, build her up into the person she so strongly desires to be. You treat her gently, softly, even when she is rough, coarse, unlovable. You love her anyways.
You hold her close when she cries. You let her tangle into you, let her wrap up within you, let her brand all her hurts into your skin until you are covered and burning and she is at ease and free.
You let her kiss you whenever she wants, wherever she wants. You let her touch you under the same guidelines, and when she grows hungry and restless, you let her take advantage of this.
You make a home for her in your home. She gets your sock drawer and the back space of your closet, and the right side of your bed. She gets two mugs, the downstairs bathroom, and a magnet on the fridge to her favorite takeout place. She gets the blue couch she wants, three of her favorite movies added to your extensive collection, a set of spare clothes in your drawer, a seat at the kitchen table.
She never uses any of it.
She never loves you back.
---
You get a front row seat at her wedding.
She looks beautiful with him. They fit together well.
You keep your silence, and your tears. They have never helped you against her before, and they won't now.
You expect to let her go.
You prepare yourself.
You accept it.
---
She refuses to relinquish her hold over you. You consider begging, you consider fighting, you consider demanding that she let go, because she's made her choice.
She doesn't listen to your pleading. She fights back when you start to scream. She turns a deaf ear upon your demands.
She's made her choice.
“You're mine,” she breathes into your ear, breathless and wanting after she's made you breathless and wanting, “you can't ever forget that, Tobin. You can't ever leave me. I need you.”
She kisses away all your protests, forces you to bury them deep inside, where they fester over the years and cause you a great deal of pain.
She pretends not to notice, even when everyone else does.
In the darkness of the night, she tries to kiss your hurt away.
You pretend, for her sake, that she succeeds.
---
You meet someone. She is so good and soft and kind, the exact opposite of all you have come to know. She never takes without asking, never assumes without knowing.
She isn't selfish. She cares deeply, and you want to care deeply for her in return.
You spend months with her trying to break the lock she has left on your heart. It has been so long since you have tried to fight the cold, confining iron she has forced around you that you almost don't know where to begin.
She helps you. You go slow together, taking your time, and as time goes on, the lock starts to turn, little by little, crumbling into nothing.
Your heart tastes freedom and grows light again. Day by day you cast the remnants of her from yourself, cleansing your body of all she has put you through, eliminating the lingering pain she has stamped into your very being.
You think you're ready to love someone new, to love her, who has been so good to you, so careful and sweet and patient and kind.
She comes back for you, finds you, wraps you back up in her long legs and soft fingers, in her blue eyes and cherry lips.
The lock she leaves behind this time is stronger than the last.
---
You run away from her. Paris is beautiful, and the soccer is even better, and the people there don't know you or anything about you. You feel new, fresh, alive.
She lets you stay for a few months, just long enough for the morning sun to regain meaning.
Then she calls you home.
---
You realize it's been far too long. You realize you're tired, angry, and terribly sad.
You also feel alone. You've never felt more alone than you have after meeting her.
You realize she doesn't need you to love her, and even if she did, that she wouldn't deserve it.
You hope she is kind to him. He has a good soul, a good heart, just like you used to have.
You hope she doesn't ruin him like she's ruined you.
Her hands are at your hips, her lips at your throat when you tell her, when you grab her and push her from you, a hardness in your eyes.
“Enough, Alex,” you say, and your tone is harder than you've ever used with her, “enough.”
She sees that you're serious, and it makes her cry tears of panic. She doesn't know what she is without you.
“Please Tobin,” she sobs into your neck, her fingers unwilling to part with your skin, “please don't do this,” she cries, and then when you push her off she grabs you even tighter, and her eyes grow even wilder.
“Don't you love me?” She purrs into your throat, and revulsion floods through you.
She sees the disgust on your face as you push her off, hard this time, and she knows it's finally over.
She sobs hysterically the entire time you pack your things. It's overwhelming, and you willingly leave things behind just to get away from her.
She follows you around like a broken doll, begging you to stay. You ignore her efforts and walk faster.
You get to the door and go to open it and her fingers close over your wrists.
Her eyes are more red than blue when you look at her.
“Don't go,” she whines, her voice soft, scared, “I love you.”
You open the door and yank your wrist back.
This is how you leave her.
---
She calls you everyday begging for you to come back.
She tells you everything. She tells you anything.
She swears she'll leave him. She swears she'll love you. She swears she'll be better, that the two of you can be better together.
She tells you a million lies, as always.
The difference is that, this time, you've learned to recognize them.
You stop answering her calls and start weaning yourself off of her.
Eventually, she stops calling.
She leaves for Orlando, for her husband, the month after, and she never comes back.
They buy a house on the water and a dog named Blue, just like you and her always planned.
You start seeing someone new.
This is how you lose her.
---
She is not the love of your life.
She's better.
She loves you back the way she should have loved you back. There are no guessing games with her, no unfairness or unevenness, no dictation, or begging, or pleading, or withholding.
There is no cheating, no hidden love, no possession, no secrets.
She is good to you, and she lets you take the time you need to heal.
She recognizes that someone has wronged you. She never asks her name. Such things belong in the past, and she lets you keep it there.
She cuts through the protective barrier of your heart like it’s nothing. She livens you right up.
The world starts to look beautiful again.
Some nights you still get frustrated, and angry, and sad. She holds you gently, softly when you do, until the hurt passes.
She gets your sock drawer, the back space of your closet, the right side of your bed, your downstairs bathroom. She gets the brown couch she wants, two mugs, a seat at your kitchen table. She gets three of her favorite movies added to your extensive collection, a magnet on the fridge to her favorite takeout place.
She uses all of it, everyday.
---
When you say “I love you, Chris,” for the first time, she blinks sleepy, warm brown eyes up at you and presses a smile against your collarbone.
“I love you too,” she tells you.
There's no hesitation or uncertainty.
You believe every word to your core.
---
She is young and has brown eyes. Her hair is dark like ash wood, and her lips are tan and soft, like beach sand. Her voice is light, high, and always upbeat, and her laugh is loud and unrestrained, a little bit like your love for her.
She is exactly your height. The two of you stand, always, on equal footing. Her touch is always gentle, it never hurts you.
She is strong and kind, but shy. She is sometimes soft-spoken, and prefers to listen. She is a calm, steady presence, not a burning inferno against a storming sky, but a soft flickering of a candle against a starry night.
She is not the love of your life.
She's better.
You lose the love of your life.
You never lose her.