I am she.

2011 - 

She was in love with the way he held her, with the way his light brown hands wrapped around her small waist. The waist that had been squeezed too tight by the man before. 

She was in love with how soft his eyes were, how gentle his hands felt, and how comforting his smile made her. She was in love with every inch of him - the way the tips of his tight mahogany curls were slightly dyed brighter blonde from the sun; the way a few flakes from his hair products would be sprinkled towards the roots of his head. The way his face was chiseled perfectly symmetrical, sculpted in a manner that stayed embedded in her memory; how a small patch of skin next to his ear was just a bit lighter than the rest of his face. The way that his eyebrows seemed as though they were designed to match his facial shape perfectly; she used to have to pluck the few hairs that were bundled right in the middle of his face from his eyebrows. She loved the way that when he tried to raise one eyebrow, his nose would flare, lips would purse, and eyes would squint. She loved how short his hairs were above each eye, following a strict more straightened arch. The way his eyes stayed dazed from life while having small freckles follow around the circle of color amongst the whites of his eyes. His eyes were stern, dark, flat, and oval. He hated his eyes because he thought they were bland - she loved his eyes, everything about them. If he stood in the sun, a slight shade of caramel would allow her to see what he so desperately always tried to hide from her - his vulnerability. She loved how scared he was of that vulnerability, of that openness. She loved the way his lips were full, plump, and had a few cracks stretching toward the inner part of his mouth, as he always forgot chapstick. His lips were perfectly round, on both the top and bottom - succulent is what she would use to describe them. What she loved most though - was tracing her finger against his lips and kissing them; then, placing her pale upper lip in between his while slowly bitting the plump bottom lip he mesmerized her with. Every time she was able to share a kiss with him, she felt a sense of euphoria, an intimate moment which she knew only belonged to the two of them - that they were the only two people that were cursed to be in the hell that society was, but did it together. She felt a warm tingle wrinkle down her spine from each and every kiss they shared, from the firm embrace of their bodies. She knew he was the person she wanted to waste time with, until the day she died. The only person she could see herself feeling comfortable enough to share her body with and the only person she knew would respect the body that she so sparingly gave to him. She fantasized everything about him, but she couldn't tell if it was an obsession or an immense, overpowering love. 

She was encapsulated by the way he always knew what she tried to lock away from him: her past, her heart, and her feelings. But he always knew: knew when the sadness was too suffocating for her to breathe and knowing when her past was so overwhelming that it drowned her entire sense of existence out. He knew: Her, her body, her mind, her heart, like no one else had even attempted or wanted to know Her. She was in love with the power she let him have over her, or the way he could destroy her entire existence with the absence of his love. 

Amongst the overpowering love, she felt like she was forever indebted to him, until the day she died. He had saved her. He had saved her from The Man That Squeezed Her Waist Too Tight. 

March 1, 1988 - 

“Play Nocturne, Op.9: No. 2 in E-Flat Major” The Man That Squeezed Her Waist Too Tight said. He looked at Her with his glassy blue eyes, eyes that for some reason consistently fascinated her. 

*The song picked up momentum

He grabbed her hand, while her white tight-knit dress displayed the beautiful curves of her olive-tanned body. The dress was longsleeved, laced with a mesh material with sequins draping the side of it. It sinched her waist, yet flowed more loosely towards her legs. The Man That Squeezed Her Waist Too Tight picked it out for her - he loved her body. He had an unquenchable thirst for doing more than admiring it. This man embraced it, groped it, and caressed it whenever he pleased - he picked clothing for her that satisfied his desires - the tight-knit white dress. 

Classical music whistled softly amongst the loud noise that continued to pile on top of itself from each table. The restaurant was packed tight as it usually is on Friday nights like these. Amongst the noise and the people sat Her, and The Man that Squeezed Her Waist Too Tight. He caressed her under the table, he always caressed her. His hands felt familiar to her, not in the pleasant way that loving hands would be, but in the sense that they were always touching her, conscious or not. Her beautiful body was marked with the memories that he had engraved into her mind: the bruising, the scars, and the pain. But she loved him - with her unquenchable thirst for loving and being loved, she loved him.

Even though he forced her to give up her beautiful body to him daily, at whatever hour he pleased, she loved him. Even though he would blame her for the slightest inconvenience, resulting in his anger to be displayed in bruises on her body, she loved him. Even though she knew deep down he didn't love her, she loved him. 

*The song ends 

The waiter with tight mahogany curls comes to give them the check. She noticed how his face was chiseled perfectly symmetrical. She noticed the way that his eyebrows seemed as though they were designed to match his facial shape perfectly. His eyes were stern, dark, flat, and oval. 

The waiter saw The Man That Squeezed Her Waist Too Tight abusing her, although she liked to think of him just loving her in his own way. 

He left her a note on the table: “I will save you from him. You do not deserve that.” 

2011 - 

She was in love with the way he saved her from The Man that Squeezed Her Waist Too Tight. The saddest truth to it all, however, was that she was trapped in that love that they shared. She had carefully crafted an emotional prison for her love to be suffocated within, so she could not even bear to think about scavenging for love with anyone else. She was so mesmerized in their love that it was hard for her to tell the difference between reality and memories - not that she even wanted to. Their love was a memory that she desperately wanted to turn into a touch, into a feeling that could never leave her. She was scared, scared that their love was slipping through her fingers, leaving her just like he did. 

He died. 

I am she. 

I was in love with the way he held me.