Still Writing You Out

There is a certain story about a man who sent his servant to his hometown to find a wife for his son. The servant voyaged to the town on his camels, stopped by a well, and prayed for a sign. He said that the first woman to offer a drink to both him and his camels would be his master’s son’s wife.

Moments later, a woman came.

She turned to the servant, offered him a drink, and his camels too. Just as he had prayed, so it came to pass.

My boyfriend and I decided to do the same thing. We were unsure about whether we were meant for each other, so three months in, we made the decision to pray for signs, and on the third Sunday of our fourth month, before I went back home for summer, we would discuss. If the signs were answered, we would stay together, but if they weren’t, we would break up.

We had been praying separately for weeks, and before I knew it, it was the final week before that Sunday, and the signs hadn’t come to pass. There were 7 days left.

The thought of being single again wasn’t as daunting as I imagined it would be, but then Monday came along. And it changed everything.

He drove me back home and parked in my driveway. Not wanting to part ways, we faced each other and continued with our conversation, and then he suddenly opened up to me about his family.

Something about that level of vulnerability tugged at the very strings and fibres of my heart, and I had the sudden desire to always stay by his side. A yearning to hold him and never let go. It was a thought that stemmed from the depths of my being, and that frightened me.

Unlike him, I wasn’t the kind of person to talk about my personal life, but he was always good at getting me to talk. At some point, I found myself desiring to let him in, and that night, I allowed him into a hidden chapter of my life that no one knew.

Rain suddenly pattered against the windshield, signalling for me to go, but as I made for the car door, I noticed his arms. He was holding them out for me.

My lips rose into a smile as I leaned towards him and fell into his arms. It was a nice place to be, and if he allowed me, I could stay in his arms forever. Realising I wasn’t letting go, he continued talking, and I leaned back slightly to look up at him, but found that my eyes were drawn to his lips. We had been together four months, but he hadn’t kissed me. I imagined it was because of my braces, but I didn’t think much of it most of the time. I had never been kissed before, though in the first few weeks of our relationship, I dreaded the idea. But not anymore. Now I wondered what he would do if I leaned towards him. If I placed my lips over his, just for a moment. Just to test.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I leaned back and, with one final farewell, left his car and rushed to my front door. My legs gave in as soon as I shut myself in, and I leaned against the wall as the panic seeped in. I could only manage a mute ‘no’ as I placed my hand against my chest. It wasn’t the time to fall in love. In six days, we might be breaking up. But my stubborn heart refused to hold onto that logic, and it told me what I had been trying to deny for the past few weeks.

I loved him.

I wasn’t falling in love, I was in love. My heart belonged to him. It was his, but the logic was that he would give it back to me in six days. I didn’t want him to. I wanted him to hold on to it. To fight for it. To fight for me.

But I was afraid he wouldn’t…

It was Wednesday when we found ourselves tipsy in his friend’s living room.

He was lying beside me on the couch with his legs resting on my lap. His knees were raised, and my hands rested atop them, holding them against me when he suddenly pulled at my arm. I allowed it to fall across his body, imagining it had been blocking his view of the TV, but I used the opportunity to grab hold of his hand.

His touch was something I relished. It was as if my body were a conductor, and his touch the source that caused a charged flow to surge through every fibre of my being. It was baffling to think that one person could affect the entirety of my self the way he did. And it wasn’t just physically. It was in the way he challenged me mentally. Helped me grow spiritually. Made me want to change for the better. And it went both ways. The fact of the matter was that we were good for each other, and maybe, just maybe, that would count for something.

I found myself caught up in the feel of his hand in mine when a specific line in the show caught my attention. It was speaking of a couple who had been together for months but hadn’t said I love you yet, and I grinned at that. It reminded me of us. Like me, he thought the same thing, but unlike me, he said it out loud. We were opposites that way. I kept certain thoughts to myself, but he rarely did.

‘That’s you and I,’ he said, catching me off guard, but he didn’t stop there. He kept his eyes on me as he said the three words I had realised only two days prior. ‘I love you.’

A rush of warmth surged through me, his words charging the conductor that was my body more than his touch ever had. But there was no way he meant it. He was tipsy. Surely it was a drunken utterance. So I couldn’t say it back. But I couldn’t stay quiet. And it wasn’t like I didn’t love him back. I did. And so I said: ‘Ditto.’

‘Wow.’ There was an obvious shift in his eyes, and I watched as he deflated. He was hurt. He hadmeant it. ‘I just said I loved you and you say ditto.’

I was sixteen when a boy first told me he loved me. We had known each other for three days, and he had waited for me to say it back, but I didn’t. I couldn’t tell that boy I loved him because I didn’t—but I did love this boy. This boy lying beside me and confessing his love to me while tipsy. This boy. My best friend. I loved him. And so I said it back. I said, ‘I love you,’ for the first time, and opened my heart up all the more, knowing that within days, we could break up.

I held onto his hand a little tighter then. This was going to make it so much harder. He was the person who had managed to peel back several layers of myself that I didn’t realise I hid behind. He brought out the best version of me. He helped me confront my timidity but taught me to embrace my awkwardness. Challenged me to address my pride but encouraged me to recognise my self-worth, and I didn’t want to lose him.

Though within that same hour, it felt like I did.

We had gone from holding on to each other on the couch to me reaching towards him and urging him to look at me, desperate for his green eyes to meet mine before he did something he would regret.

I can’t tell you what—that’s between me and him—but there is a certain story about a man whose leader was set to be killed. He followed his leader to where he was taken captive, but when people recognised the man, he denied ever being associated with his leader. Three times he denied him, and then his leader locked eyes with him, and the man wept at the extent of his betrayal. He regretted it, and I didn’t want the same to happen. I didn’t want the man I loved to feel the same regret that man had felt, but he wouldn’t listen to me.

My heart broke a little then, and a heatedness curdled within me when I realised he wasn’t going to listen at all. He had just told me he loved me, and I had told him I loved him. Had it meant nothing?

The pain of that thought and the ensuing anger that followed had me gathering my things and leaving for the door. But then I stopped suddenly, hesitated with my hand on the door handle. I didn’t want to leave him, but I couldn’t condone what he was doing.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ I said loud enough for him to hear before I finally opened the door and left.

I focused my mind on my feet, counting each step before I eventually reached my house. As soon as I entered my room, I allowed my resolve to fall and found myself swept up in a sea of emotion. My back met the wall as I fell to the ground, and I pulled my knees to my chest in a vain attempt at comfort.

The last time he upset me, I had put myself in this same position on the bathroom floor, but the difference was that he was there. He came after me. Knocked on the bathroom door. Asked me to let him in, and I had. I unlocked the door but remained on the ground, and when I struggled to communicate my feelings, he picked me up from the floor and wrapped me in his arms. I didn’t immediately relax, so he held me tighter against him and apologised. But he wasn’t here to wrap me in his arms now, and so I held my knees closer to my chest and communicated my feelings out in a prayer—a prayer that was cut short by a knock, and I just knew it was him.

My palms roughly swiped the tears from my cheeks as I made my way downstairs to the front door. I opened it and there he was, shoulders slumped and with an expression I had never seen on him before. It was as if he were trying to look okay, but the regret was evident. It was there in the frown of his lips. In the crease of his eyebrows. But I didn’t address that.

‘Not here,’ was all I said as I walked past him, shutting the door behind me and standing in the middle of the street. I didn’t say anything more, adopting the hip-jutted, arms-crossed position as I waited for him to speak.

‘When you said don’t be stupid,’ he began quietly, placing a hand on his chest. ‘That cut me, because I was being stupid.’

I had no protection against the cold, but the breeze did little to draw my attention from him. He told me that moments after I left, he ran after me, but he thought I would tell him to leave without giving him a chance to explain, that I would end it there and then, and that had scared him.

Hearing that gave me hope. It meant he was afraid of losing me, but I didn’t dwell on that. I allowed myself to forgive him, but I didn’t drop it there. I challenged his behaviour. Questioned whether it aligned with his morals. But then I dropped my anger, offering to pray for him, because that was all I could do.

It was after that that we found ourselves sitting on the curb, and he reflected on the night once again. He wondered how people did it—lived life constantly intoxicated, seeking highs and escapes in what could never satisfy. But then something surprising happened. He had always told me how he didn’t cry in front of people, but he allowed himself to with me.

Oh, to be a refuge where he felt safe enough to put down his walls.

It was as if my heart doubled in size, and I placed a hand on his arm, but not before he grabbed my hand and drew me towards him. Our bodies met, and he wrapped his arms around me, keeping me in place.

I was stunned, if only for a moment, before my own arms wrapped around him, allowing myself to be the comfort he needed. Several minutes passed, and we remained holding on to each other. Something about knowing I was a safe place for him only made me love him more. If only the world had stopped revolving to give us more time together.

‘I love you so much,’ I heard him say, and I pulled back to look at him.

‘I love you too.’

He went on to tell me about the sign he had been praying for. Today was the day it was meant to come to pass, but it hadn’t, which meant that we would break up come Sunday, because my signs hadn’t come to pass either. I told him how each of my signs had a specific purpose, but it was the last sign that would seal the two together—a kiss.

‘A kiss?!’ He exclaimed, taking me aback. ‘I—I thought…’ His voice trailed away, and he chuckled to himself. ‘I thought you didn’t want that.’

‘Why would you think that?’ It was my turn to be surprised. ‘I thought you didn’t want to kiss me because of my braces.’

A laugh erupted from his chest, and I felt that familiar warmth that came from eliciting that sound from him. ‘I’ve been wanting to do it for ages, I just thought since you’d never kissed a guy that you wouldn’t want to.’

I turned away then, blood rushing to my face as a grin spread across my face, more amused than embarrassed. ‘I’m not that innocent,’ I mumbled, and then I felt his hand on my cheek, turning my face so I looked at him again. His eyes were sincere, and then he suggested doing it now.

I felt my eyes widen at the suggestion of kissing him, and a rush of heat flooded my body. ‘Now?’ I panicked. ‘But I don’t know how to do it.’

‘Then let me show you.’

‘Out here?’ I gasped, consciously looking around at the street. It was empty. I was just making excuses, and he knew this as he patiently waited for me. ‘Okay, well, in the movies, they do it like this.’ I lifted my hands, cinching my fingers together to form lips and bringing them together. ‘Is that… you know, all that’s involved?’

He chuckled then, far too used to my awkwardness to be phased, and lowered my hands. ‘Just let your instincts take control.’ His voice had softened, but as he began to lean towards me, I ducked and buried my face in his chest, and he allowed me several seconds to prepare myself. I leaned back enough to look up at him, at his lips, and I silently cursed myself for not paying more attention to kiss scenes in movies.

‘You know I love you,’ he began, and I felt his arms wrap around me. ‘I love you so much. I realised this within the first month of our relationship, but I thought it would be pathetic to tell you then, so I told myself I’d tell you when we hit three months, but then we had our whole discussion, and I just didn’t end up saying it, but it’s true. I love you. So so much.’

By the time he finished, I had leaned back enough to look at him, and this time, when he leaned forward, I didn’t hide. I allowed his lips to meet mine, and we tested it out a few times before I found myself pulling back. I cupped his face in my hands, the stubble rough against my palms as I leaned forward and brought our lips together in a peck. I leaned back again, studying his face, and then his lips puckered. I must have been doing it right if he wanted more, and so we came together again, but this time, I allowed myself to fall into him.

All the thoughts racing through my head silenced as I became conscious of nothing but his lips on mine. It was just me and him. My best friend. The first man I had ever loved. The first man I had ever kissed.

The first man to ever break my heart in two.

The following days flashed by until Sunday came, and we broke up, but nothing could have prepared me for the extent of emotion that I experienced. It was a new kind of grief, because though he was still alive, I had lost him. Lost the one person I could confide in. The one person I could call my own.

There had been a part of me that hoped he would have fought for us, but he hadn’t. And one day, he would meet a girl, and they would fall in love. She would become his safe place. His best friend. And maybe, just maybe, he would fight for her…

Perhaps it was for the best, though if there was one thing I regret, it was that I didn’t tell him that I loved him more, and so I will say it on these pages—written down for all eternity:

I love you, so, so much, and though our story ends here, know that you will always have a special place in my heart.

Goodbye, my love.