<<My Interpretation>>

<<My Interpretation>>

I flunked into my car with a heavy sigh. The cold wind was making my nose run, and it was freezing the tips of the tears still stuck in my eyes. God, I hated the cold. I used to love it much like he loved it. (And still does, as far as I know.) I used to want to live somewhere nice and cold. Somewhere where it always snowed, and where I had a viable excuse to wear cute scarves and mittens and hats without seeming totally retarded. He loved it too. Probably because he's the outdoors-y type of guy who loves anything fresh and brisk and bitter.

Like I said, I hate the cold.

Blindly, I jabbed at my old McNugget's stereo system. A hush filled the speakers, and then a slow whining techno. Then an orchestrated pop. A chestnut voice began to croon soft lullaby words.


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Not the song I was planning on listening to, but it worked. I hated this song almost as much as I hated him right now.


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If only I had said something cute and un-awkward. If only I had said something smart and sassy and flirty then maybe his car wouldn't be disappearing from the school parking lot just yet. Maybe then I'd still be in it.


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The glint of his car turned out of the parking lot. I watched it drive off, my door still swung wide open, the slow British pop gushing from the speakers. It was over, and I don't even think he understood.


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The story of my life.

I pry myself out of my car and check my phone. One message. A message from a freshman I met at a play I once techie-ed for. The same play that led to this.

<<Did u tell him??>>

Good question, Freshie. Good question. I thought I did. I thought I threw the dice and let them fall where they lay. I thought he read them right. I guess I thought wrong.

Or maybe he didn’t even care.

<<No>> I responded.

I wiped my nose on my hand and gave a big sniff. The parking lot was almost deserted, aside from the lone kid striding from the tech center to the school with a book bag looped over his shoulder. He glanced at me for a minute, and instantly hurried on his way. He probably thought I was some troubled teen who'd go and pierce her nose later and get a tramp stamp saying 'Boys are Toys' and hack all her hair off. He wasn't quite off target.

My hair was always hacked off quite a bit, and I was thinking of a nose piercing sometime in the future, but the tramp stamp was way off. I'd get something more hidden, and it would say something more uplifting. Something that wouldn't remind me of boys or love or anything in between.

I wanted to forget today.

The music, so loud and drowning, almost drained all of my memories away. Almost.

I closed my eyes, tilted my face to the sky, and spread my arms wide to concentrate on nothing. Nothing at all.

God, I prayed, help me get over him. Please help me let him go.


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I stood there with my arms stretched out to the sky, probably looking like an idiot, mouthing the words like a silent prayer. Let me forget him, please. If there is someone up there, help me forget and move on. And please keep my heart from breaking.

It amazed me how two simple little letters, crushed into a single syllable, could ever hurt so much.

Behind my eyelids pictures flashed like moving images. How he hugged me, how he placed me so precariously on his toes and waltzed with me across the theatre stage while no one was looking. How he dipped me back in the dressing room, how we locked gazes.

How I could have sworn there was something stirring behind those glorious chocolate eyes.


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He had to know why I giggled so much. Why I flushed and always found myself at a loss of all witty words. I was a thunderstruck fool around him. I always will be. The butterflies in my stomach went back further than this week. It went back further than this month, or last month, or the months before that. Those butterflies that fluttered and feasted in my stomach whenever he came near blossomed last March. Or was it February? --- One of those lonesome winter months. As time passes, all winter months run together like watercolors.

It was after a performance at the community theatre. It was as I fled from an annoying stalker. It was as he hid me in the light booth. As he lifted me up for the first time in his strong arms and reached me out over the orchestra pit, I kicking and screaming and pleading for him to let me down.

That was when the butterflies were born. I wished they never existed.


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I don't think he ever realized it. I don't think he ever knew. It's sad, really, that I'll never have the courage to tell him either. My parents raised me as a responsible child. They also raised me as a chicken.

The closest I'm ever getting to telling him were those sparse moments in his car. Those silent, awkward moments when I apologized. Those moments when I confessed in the most poetical way that was presented to me. His response?

Two simple letters. One solid syllable.

"Oh."

And the enormous, ravaging cry from the butterflies tearing, and now dying, in my stomach.


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I let out another sigh and dropped my hands limply by my sides. It was cloudy today, the sky full of soft gray. I watched the endless expanse of monotonous sky for any sign, for any answer as to what to do. As to how to carve my heart out and give it to someone who needed it.

Why did God give us hearts? Why did He let us love when He knew there was so much pain in it?

I've never felt the highs of love before, only the lows. Only the pain and hurt and aching in the low pit of my stomach that made me want to puke. The tears stuck to the corners of my eyes, and they wouldn't budge. I shouldn't cry over him.

I can't let myself cry over him.


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A passing student drives across the parking lot, and disappears onto the highway, into the steady flow of steel and pavement and tomorrow, moving forward. I needed to move forward too. I needed to go too. I needed to get in, start the engine, and go.

I needed to never look back.

But…how much will it hurt if I go on the rest of my life thinking what if? What if I told him straight forward? What if I didn't use poetic devices he could get muddled in, and just told him? How could I tell him?

What if it could have worked, and I never knew?

…And what if it couldn't?


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I closed my gray jacket tightly over me and shivered in the brisk January chill. My stomach felt hollow, eaten by the butterflies that now lay like lead in my gut. Did I really want to subject myself to hurting again? It took everything just to will up the courage to corner him in his car and tell him crookedly.

How the hell was I supposed to tell him straight up?

And what if he didn't feel the same?

God, I repeat in a silent and crying prayer, please let me forget him. Please let me forget him.

Let me forget his chocolate eyes.


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Slowly, I got back into my car, and with shaking hands inserted the key into the ignition. Tears finally began rolling down my cheeks, and a knot grew in my throat. I began to sniffle, and bit my lip to keep it in. To keep myself whole and sane and together for just a little longer. My whole body shook. My bones rattled and my blood quivered, ready to fracture. Ready for the earthquake that would split me in two.

And then the chasm opened. That great gluttonous chasm that swallowed all my heart and left me hollow.

And I cried.

Three words echoed in my sobs. Three words I could never get up the courage to say.



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