I've never been in love before - and I mean real love. Not the nervous antics, not the obsessed-with-your-crush phase, but real, real love. The true kind, where you really know it. Yeah, I'm talking about that love.
I don't really know how I know I'm in love. . . I just do, I guess. There's this sureness in my mind of it, and my mind is telling me: yes, this is indeed love. I know it. And all I'm doing is agreeing, because I know that it's true too, that this is really happening - that I'm actually in love.
It's different from having a crush. Whenever I was with a crush of mine, I would turn into a nervous babble head, stuttering, my face blushing furiously, looking as if a rose had just bloomed. I would never know what to do. But whenever I am with the one I love, I'm. . . calm. At peace. It's as if I fit there, with him. Just by his side, chatting without a care, about our lives, teasing each other. . .
And I want to tell him. I want to tell him about all the nights I dreamt of him and me cuddling, of the sadness I feel whenever he is not with me. About the longing in my heart to have him hold me, and about the grief I feel whenever he is hurt badly. I want to tell him about the loneliness I feel without him, but most of all. . . I want to tell him that I love him. Really, really love him.
I now hold his hand as he lies, my head resting against his leg. I am crying because this was not supposed to happen. I should have driven. I should be the one lying in a bed with. . . with those tubes sticking out of me! But I did not drive, and I am not lying on a bed with tubes sticking out of me. I am here, crying and holding his hand for what might even be the last time.
I listen to the steady beeps of his heart rate, clinging to the sound. It is the only thing that's keeping me sane. The sound gives me reassurance, tells me that he is still alright albeit being bedridden. With the beeping acting as a soothing melody, I let my thoughts wander to happy memories of him and I.
I have always loved going to the beach. The most favorite thing I liked to do there was look for shells. They were always hard to find, but worth the long searching every time. In this memory, him and I are at the beach with our families as teenagers. The sun is blazing, hot on my shoulders and back as I sit in the water, hands weaving through the pebbles. I am wearing a sunhat and a swimsuit. Next to me is him and his twig-like frame, tongue sticking out of his mouth in determined focus as he searches for shells with me.
We sit next to each other in silence, relishing this quiet moment of friendship and enjoying the sounds of the beach. The waves are slow and only make a minor crashing sound, and kids are shouting as they splash through the water. Up above, seabirds are squawking and flying in circles, waiting for the perfect moment to snatch something to eat. I giggle when I hear a woman behind me yelling at some birds to go away. Suddenly, he gasps. My attention snaps to him, as does my head.
"What? Did you find one?" I ask eagerly, leaning in toward him to see his hands. We have been doing this for about thirty minutes now. He grins at me and shows me his palm. In it is a white shell about as big as a kid's thumb's fingernail. The best and most wonderful thing about it, though, is that it's completely whole! No chips, no cracks, not anything at all!
"Now that is a beautiful shell."
He agrees with me and hands it to me. I hold it near my heart, smiling widely at him. I remember deciding that this shell would be special, and it would be lucky. Not exactly because it was so perfect, but really, it was because he had found it. He had spent thirty minutes looking for a shell just for me.
So it would be incredibly special. Just like him.
My free hand goes to my pocket and fetches me the special shell he had found for me all those years ago. I lean back so that my head isn't lying against his leg and so that I can see. I ignore looking at his face (I'll cry horribly if I do, you see) as I remove my hand from his and replace it with the shell. I make his fingers curl around the shell, then let my hand rest above his, squeezing it.
And then I look at his face, and I begin to cry harder. But with my sobs come out the sacred words that I have kept inside of me for so, so long.
"I love you! I love you, I love you, I love you! DANG IT, I LOVE YOU! I love you! I fricken love you! I love you. I love you. . ."
But he never wakes up.
~~~~~
I'm sorry for ruining your moods, but I really wanted to write something to do with love. I never intended to make it sad, though... X3
Oops.