"I think I could have loved you
better than anybody,
and I can't stop making lists
of all the times I almost told you that."
— CAITLYN SIEHL, WAITING
I kind of always knew that I was going to fall in love with her. How?
The thought had always been there, sitting at the back of my mind. Like a secret I kept from myself and the world. An idea I didn't want to entertain, so I tried to kill it by taking in poison and a lot of other toxic things, not to mention people. And I was so blinded by that motive, I didn't notice I was also slowly taking my life away in the process.
I kind of always knew I was going to fall in love with her. How?
There were signs I saw. Symptoms I felt. I was just being stubborn every time I try to brush everything off like it was nothing. Because clearly, it was something.
I kind of always knew I was going to fall in love with her. How?
When I was younger, I used to hold my breath as long as I could and see if I could stop my lungs from wanting to inhale air. Of course, I failed. The body always knows. I might be the master of my brain, but my body would betray me. Stop breathing, I say. But my lungs would expand and take in oxygen. You're not allowed to love her, I say. But my eyes and my hands were traitors and would always look for her proximity.
I kind of always knew I was going to fall in love with her. How?
I saw enough fast-forward's and flashback's; I tossed the remote to the Bermuda Triangle of my couch just so I would not lose my mind. It's the feeling of not wanting to hear spoilers even if I know how it was going to end. My life was a TV show everyone was talking about, but I have not caught up on yet:
You will meet her and you will not tell her that you think she has nice eyes and a diabetic grin. But she smiles and stares at you, anyway. Like she knew about the skeleton in your cupboard. It will piss you off. (But not for long.)
And things happen but it all boils down to this: You're not pissed off anymore.
She'll tell you how you don't appear in her dreams and it will hurt. She'll tell you about a boy who knew what her favorite flower is and brought pretty pebbles in her room every other night, and it will hurt. She will tell you that the same boy thinks her laugh is a lifeline, and it will hurt. Your chest had become a target and every time you see her, there are a hundred darts in her fingers. (But you still want to be around her, anyway.)
And things happen but it all boils down to this: You'll love her more, and it will hurt.
And the biggest plot twist—to you (the audience already saw it coming)—is she'll love you back. You will gasp and hold her tight, and she whispers, "It's always been you," and finally, it will not hurt anymore. You will hug, and the friction will create a fireplace between your bodies but it will not burn your skin. It will feel good.
And things happen but it all boils down to this: She'll love you now, and you'll probably love her forever, and it feels like nothing can hurt anymore.
So, I kind of always knew I was going to fall in love with her. This is how.
