In the Dark

In the dark, I was fine. I was safe. There was nothing I couldn’t be.

In the dark, I was home. It knew me, loved me, held me closely. But there comes a day when our safest places become unfamiliar and dangerous. There comes a time when we are forced to step out into the light and see. That day for me was a dagger to the chest that left me splayed open and screaming at the sky. My eyes were ripped open, and I could not help but be consumed by the beauty of all that lay before me.

For years, I lived softly in the dark. I knew who I was or thought I did, and I didn’t need anything else. But then you came—fast and unexpected—and blinded me. After losing so much, I wasn’t prepared to let that much light in, but you carried it so confidently that I couldn’t help but be immersed.

I met you when I least expected it. Cliché, I know, but that’s how life works her magic. She does her best tricks when you look away. I met you on a cold night in a bar with red lights and a tin-tiled ceiling. The tiles were bronze, with the emblem of a flower in the middle surrounded by four diamonds, each with a smaller flower tucked in the corner, as if the smaller flowers were sustained by the majesty of the larger flower.

You were late, running behind because of a work meeting, so I ordered a beer and sat alone as the conversations of the other tables washed over me. It was so dark in the bar that I worried you wouldn’t be able to see me. So, I anxiously watched the door poised to wave each time I heard the bell ring, feeling embarrassed when yet another person entered, and immediately turned right to join the ever-expanding game of Magic happening in the corner booth.

I checked your dating profile to ensure I got your face right so I wouldn’t miss you when you finally arrived. I tried to imagine how you would move and what you would say to me first, how this interaction might spark in me a desire to try to heal my ravaged heart after being mangled so completely. To be honest, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be there. I didn’t feel ready, but I was sure that if I didn’t try now, I would lose the will to love completely.

The past year had been hard. Okay, brutal. After losing Ryan, I was terrified to allow love in again. Everyone talks about how hard breakups are and how you’ll get stronger because of them, but no one prepares for the utter grief that comes from losing your best friend. No one tells you that they’ll take with them a piece of you that will never come back. No one tells you that you’ll have to drag yourself from death with busted knees and a timeshare in hell.

As I trace my fingers through the condensation on my glass, I think about running. I don’t have to do this. I could get up and leave, go home, turn out the lights, and stay comfortably alone in my raggedness. I don’t know why I’m here anyway. Ryan destroyed my loyalty to love. He grabbed my world and showed me what it truly was: a fabrication, a dream, a lie into which I had foolishly sunk my whole heart. I was so sure of our future. So confident I had found the one, but that certainty dissolved into goo and muck and nearly killed me.

The bell on the door jingled, and as I looked up, I saw you, blue-eyed and hurrying in off the street.

“Sorry I’m late,” you say, a bit of snow on your shoulders and in your black hair. “That meeting went way longer than I was expecting.”

“No worries. It’s all good,” I say. Already so willing to concede my own feelings to make someone else feel okay.

You ordered a beer, and for the first time since your arrival, I looked into your eyes. That’s when everything turned strange. The red light in the bar softened. The people around us disappeared. The flowers on the tiled ceiling seemed to grow and dance above our heads. The conversation came easy and ate away at the hours. You were fascinating, brave, and self-possessed. It was easy to be myself because you were so absolutely your own. There was no mirroring or telling me what I wanted to hear. You had ticks and quirks that made me wonder what it was like to live in your head. I liked you. I really liked you.

We left because it was closing time. As you walked me to the street corner, I wished you would hold my hand, but just as we dipped into the pool of light coming from the streetlight, you wrapped your arm around my waist and kissed me. You kissed me in a way I would have only expected behind closed doors—a long, familiar kiss—a kiss not meant for strangers.

I left missing you after having only just met you. I left wanting you. A dopy, ill-concealed grin spread across my face as a message from you lit up my phone. Had fun meeting you. What are you doing Saturday?

Nothing. I was doing nothing Saturday. So, we went on a second date, a third date, and on the fourth date, I shamelessly whispered in your ear and asked you to sleep over. I never could have been prepared for what would happen that night.

In the dark, everything became clear: I had never been loved. No one loved me but you. I disappeared and reappeared. I was you. I was me. I was alone and all consumed. I fell fast and hard in the dark. I finally relaxed and let myself be myself: no mask, no role to play, just fun, and joy, and skin. Something burst inside me, and all the darkness I held onto cracked and washed away. I found myself again.

My definition of love crumbled that night, and in the morning sun with the smell of fresh coffee lingering in the air, I cried. All the fear and hurt came tumbling out as I realized that my capacity for love hadn't been destroyed. It had grown in ways I couldn’t see. It had expanded to catch me when I needed it.

I cried in your arms as my room grew brighter, and your blue eyes carried in them the fury and complexity of the sky. You had so much space for me. All your life, you had been carrying a special part of me, and that night, you gave it back. Thank you for caring for it. Thank you for bringing it back because this time, it stayed and illuminated my world. This time, it was strong and true and boldly stood before me, ready to be accepted.