For Every Missing Shade

Short Story 1: The Art of Free Fall

It could have been something small that caught my attention. Something in the way she laughed or told a joke. It could have been a look or a glance, but it affected me all the same. I always do this. I romanticize every situation I'm in.

New relationships make us vulnerable and liable to getting hurt. It's a part of the gamble we take. But as I grow I've found my gambles have gotten riskier and more sudden. Each time I feel a spark, I take the leap. But lately, it feels like I'm jumping out of a plane more than it feels like I'm jumping into a relationship.

Love isn't something you kneel down to pick up or something you climb up to. It's something you fall into. I've always liked that. It's something we do without control. Just like skydiving, you can't decide you want to stop after you start falling.

But love isn't beautiful because you fall, it's beautiful because someone stops you from hitting the ground.

I guess I should say it could be beautiful if someone stops you from hitting the ground.

But that didn't happen last time.

I jumped out of a plane without a parachute. I can't fault her for it, she did nothing wrong. How could she know that I would mistake a friendly gesture for a boarding pass.

She couldn't break my fall because she didn't know I jumped in the first place. But I did, and the ground was getting closer as I desperately looked around for something to stop me.

But nothing did.

And then I shattered.

I was reeling from the collision. Having a glass heart with a romantic mind is a deadly combination, but I can't help it. I couldn't help jumping out of that plane just as much as I couldn't stop myself from shattering once I hit the ground.

And the aftermath is where I am now. I'm sitting in my hospital bed, looking down at the injury list, and praying that the insurance will cover it for the one-thousandth time.

I don't get it. Every relationship takes its small steps, but it's never too long until my small steps lead me to open air outside of a cockpit.

For a brief second, though, I could see the color. I could see the green of the trees below me, and the blue of the rivers rushing throughout the landscape. It only takes one shade to convince me to get on the runway. Just one drop of color during the hours, days, weeks, and months of grey to get me back in the air. It's funny how fast the color can drain once you realize your mistake.

And then there's Her. The Girl. The one that walked into my class.

I feel like I'm looking at flights. I'm buying the next taxi to the airport. I can feel the danger inside of me, but it excites me too much to stop.

Jesus Christ, and I haven't even spoken to her yet.

I'm screwed.