Being in love with someone who feels nothing for you and never has, well that is one thing. But then you meet them. You have this person, and these stories together, but it’s not like before. You have a book of what you had, a leather-bound, hand stitched, chicken scratched collection of something wonderful and whether it makes you laugh or smile or want to scream or even when it makes you cry, it’s still your favorite story to read.
And how do we shelf that? How do we put it neatly and safely out of arms length, tucked away with the rest like it’s something ordinary? How do we keep it anywhere but the stack of our favorite things piled beside our beds? How do we not reach for it when we are passing time and towns on the train, when we slide our heavy hearts between our sheets, or when the light pouring in through the winter window feels just right somehow?
How do we stop reading something we worked so hard to remember? Words and moments that always felt important, so important we had to write them down for fear of forgetting, those things so important that there’s no way we’d forget anyhow?
We grew up on books, swallowed up stories and words. We knew what they meant. Like we knew how dangerous and thrilling and terrifying and relieving it was to finally meet someone we wanted others to read too. Someone who was enough to put to words.
All I’m trying to say is I get it. Which I know you know, and other people do too, but it feels important to say all the same. I don’t know how to stop reading my favorite story either, even, and sometimes especially, when it breaks my heart.
This is how you lose her.
You lose her when you forget to remember the little things that mean the world to her: the sincerity in a stranger’s voice during a trip to the grocery, the delight of finding something lost or forgotten like a sticker from when she was five, the selflessness of a child giving a part of his meal to another, the scent of new books in the store, the surprise short but honest notes she tucks in her journal and others you could only see if you look closely.
You must remember when she forgets.
You lose her when you don’t notice that she notices everything about you: your use of the proper punctuation that tells her continuation rather than finality, your silence when you’re about to ask a question but you think anything you’re about to say to her would be silly, your mindless humming when it is too quiet, your handwriting when you sign your name in blank sheets of paper, your muted laughter when you are trying to be polite, and more and more of what you are, which you don’t even know about yourself, because she pays attention.
She remembers when you forget.
You lose her for every second you make her feel less and less of the beauty that she is. When you make her feel that she is replaceable. She wants to feel cherished. When you make her feel that you are fleeting. She wants you to stay. When you make her feel inadequate. She wants to know that she is enough and she does not need to change for you, nor for anyone else because she is she and she is beautiful, kind and good.
You must learn her.
You must know the reason why she is silent. You must trace her weakest spots. You must write to her. You must remind her that you are there. You must know how long it takes for her to give up. You must be there to hold her when she is about to.
You must love her because many have tried and failed. And she wants to know that she is worthy to be loved, that she is worthy to be kept.
And, this is how you keep her.
reblogging again because it’s perfect
Navigli District, Milan