You don't know this yet, but I'm not an optimist. I don't really believe in much, I can't bring myself to trust a lot. To me, the world has always seemed too sad, too heartbreaking.
That is not to say I don't believe in anything, mind you. I do.
I believe people can be kind, sometimes, and it can be a lovely thing to witness; I believe there are infinite realities aside from this one, and in one or two of those I may not be so melancholy; I believe in love, oddly enough, even though I haven't been able to experience it properly yet; and, I also believe in you. I believe that you are real.
I first thought of you when I was a kid. My parents took me to see Romeo and Juliet in the park on a hot summer night, under a sky that was exquisitely clear and starless.
I was immediately entranced.
As the play neared its end, during one of Romeo's final soliloquies, I found myself observing the audience—I hadn't quite realized how it consisted mainly of couples, until then.
I watched as husbands held their wives close, girlfriends grabbed onto their boyfriends' arms and lovers locked their fingers together, squeezing each other's hands tightly.
I kept wondering how that was like. Holding someone's hand, having them hold mine. Everybody seemed to have their half, so I logically assumed when I grew up I would, too. That meant someone—whoever he was—was out there, somewhere. Mine, as much as I was his.
Now as a kid, to consider this is easy, but it gets tricky as you get older.
I doubt more than I did, I certainly have more fear than I did and I hope (much) less than I did, back then.
I had my first kiss and then my second. Relationships with people I truly liked.
Yet, none of them were you.
It's funny, I don't know who you are, where you're from or how and when we'll meet. I don't even know what it is you look like, though I can honestly say it doesn't matter. I don't care if your eyes are blue or green or hazel. I care that they're kind—I know they'll be kind.
On a good day, I'll be so sure that you exist, I'll barely be able to contain myself imagining the day you'll come and my lonely will become somehow secondary;
On the bad ones, I entertain the most wicked of thoughts: maybe you really are real, but what if I never find out?
It isn't sad, not really. See, I don't doubt you, just my luck.
Today is a good day, and I love the idea that you are out there, somewhere, waiting for us to meet.
When we do, I will take you to see Shakespeare in the park, and as Romeo defies the stars and couples align in pairs, I will reach for your hand.
I can't wait.