When Love Requires Death

I’ve always been a serious learner. Before I graduated, I grinded my nose into my homework every day, night and hour. My friends told me to take a break and go out, maybe do something else other than studying, but I’d always refuse.

The side of my middle finger was always red, for there was a pencil in my fingers as long as I was awake. A homework or exam preparation sheet was always in front of me, even at mealtimes. 

I barely slept each semester, but, oddly, I never had any eyebags or got tired. If I do sleep, I will fall asleep holding a textbook or a stack of notes clipped together. Even my parents told me to have fun. “All work and no fun is just the same as all fun and no work,” my mother had reminded me, when I had come home one school-break.

I shook my head and said, “I applied for college with the promise of graduating well, and I’ll fulfil that promise, no matter what, no matter how.” My mother managed a weak smile and patted my back.

When holiday came, instead of going to Paris or hanging out with friends at the mall, I catched up with one thing I needed most: sleep. As my mother and father still went to work, when the school-breaks came, they went to visit historic places, or went on roadtrips with my siblings.

If I was in unusually good health, I’d tag along and have fun with them too. But, if my eyes were too droopy for dinner, then I’d stay home and snooze all day long, only waking to deposit some unhygienic excess from my body or filling my stomach up with some rather appetising edibles.

One day, I met you. And as our friendship blossomed into something more like a daffodil in spring, the universe decided to teach me the most important lesson in my life. Something changed in me, in a good way and I’ll never regret it.

I was walking in the hallways, my eyes glued to my screen as I read the digital questionnaire I need to fill in to join next week’s exam. I filled it out, lingering a little at every question before clicking on the correct answer.

Distracted, I bumped into you. No- Bumped wasn’t the correct word. Crashed. That’s more like it. I crashed into you, and, unfortunately, you were holding a stack of folders, books and notes and whatnot.

Everything toppled out of your arms and onto the floor as we collided. My tablet face-planted on the floor, my hand reaching out to catch it. But, I was too late so, much to my demise, it fell. You smiled sadly at me, as if to say, “Look at what you’ve done.”

I shake my head and chuckle awkwardly, “I’m sorry,” I said, gesturing to the mess that lay sprawled on the floor. “It’s fine,” you say, kneeling down to collect your belongings. I squatted, too, to help you since I felt guilty.

Then. I observed you and your pure beauty. Your chocolate-coloured hair, long and luscious, scented with strawberry shampoo. Your matching hazel eyes, that glimmered in the dim hallway light. 

Your pink lips, naturally coloured. Your skin was smooth, and your colour fair. You were white, a pale Snow White, a specimen of human beauty. My heart melted at the sight of you, and a strange feeling floated into me.

Butterflies fluttered in my stomach; a feeling I have never felt before. I felt as if I was attracted to you, like a magnet would to a refrigerator. Never have I felt this way, especially to girls. While my friends were out philandering with girls, I would stay home and read “A Brief History of Time”.

My hands nimbly helped her collect her things, for I have been used to organising and re-organising my desk every time I finish studying. The last book lay unnoticed, and as her eyes spotted it, mine too, and we both reached out.

Her hands and mine touched as we held the book simultaneously. A tinge of red creeped up her cheeks that I couldn’t help but notice. “Thank you,” she says, as I hand the book over to her. 

Before we part, I introduce myself, and she listens to me attentively, her copper eyes lighting up with my every word. We exchange phone numbers.

Soon enough, we started going to lunch together, and hanging out after school at each other’s house. I was surprised to find someone like me, a nerd, a bookworm, and a teacher’s pet. It turns out, she loved learning as much as I did.

When most of our friends started playing video games together, we would stuff knowledge in our minds together, read books side by side and finish up projects while the others were partying or drinking out there.

Together, we ruled the school and our names shone side by side as teacher after teacher praised us for our good and consistent grades. With every homework assigned, we got closer and closer.

She taught me something. Something I didn’t learn from the dozens of textbooks I read. Something I didn’t read from the articles my professors sent me. Something I never knew I could feel.

She taught me love.

Sure, I’ve spent my whole life learning, my nose stuck in a book, but never before have I learned to appreciate the little things in life that make life itself so sweet and charming. My experience with her was something I’ll never, ever forgive and will forever cherish.

And then, just as we were the bestest of friends and the smartest in the whole school, tragedy struck. 

Cancer attacked her. Her beautiful hair fell into loose strands and she decided to shave her head. Her once exquisite facial features turned wrinkled and she looked exceptionally weak in her dull hospital clothes.

Her smile wasn’t as bright as the past, and all I wanted to do was hold her close and beg god to spare her young life. Her eyes lost their charming glow. Her laughter lost its cheerfulness. My heart ached to tell her how I feel as I felt her life force ebb away, like waves by the sea shore.

She, the girl who taught me love, was now teaching me to let go of her and move on. One night, she told me that her doctor told her that there’s only a 25% chance of her living past this year, and that she was afraid of death.

That fateful night, I held her close as she sobbed the tears of vulnerability into my chest. My shirt was soaked, but all that mattered was her. I tried to blink back my tears, for I had to stay strong. For her.

The next morning, I whispered, “I love you,” to her, and she smiled. Then, she closed her eyes and fell into a fit of peaceful sleep, never to wake up again. Her grip on my hand loosened, and tears dropped onto my lap as I realised that I was the last thing she held.

In that moment, I felt as if a piece of my heart had been wrung away from me, tossed into the darkness, never to be found again.

That day, I sat beside her, holding her cold hand as the sun rose, warming the building with its strong rays, painting the skies with its light. 

From that moment, I never stopped studying. Every time I read a book, every time I filled a questionnaire, I remembered her, and how I was doing everything for her.

When I graduated college, when the celebrations were over, I trudged the familiar path to her grave. I sat there, for hours as I wiped the grime off her tombstone, and sobbed into my hands. I offered her some daffodils, her favourite flower, and I knew she told me a silent thank you when the breeze lifted gently.

“I brought you daffodils, on a pretty string,

But they won’t flower like they did last spring.”

“Thank you,” I whispered aloud, “For teaching me love and death.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1D5WTLMa6lw

listen to this on loop as you read the story.