You know, people love to say that opposites attract. And maybe that’s why I tried so hard to make us work. The girl who measures two teaspoons of sugar to put in her tea and the boy with calloused palms, climbing every mountain he can because he likes the way the stars look when nothing is in their way. Frothy milk and adrenaline. We looked like idiots together. You at my charity dinners in a poorly tailored sport coat. Five o'clock shadow. Bad jokes. And me scaling the rock climbing wall with slippery hands. Two feet above ground. A loose cotton dress. But laughing. Both of us always laughing. At me and you and this stupid world for working in a way that let the two of us need each other so desperately. Opposites. You’re damn right they attract. But attraction and commitment were never the same thing. Maybe you always knew that. And that’s why you laughed. Because you knew that one day, your girl would stand on Everest. Scream to the stars. Drink her coffee black. But me, I’m still learning. Learning as you tell we want different things. Learning when you drop off every piece of myself I’ve left at your place, nothing folded, the toothbrush tangled with hairs. Learning while I sit here writing about the boy who bounced from cliff tops to see the stars and the girl whose feet never left the ground, whose eyes only ever knew how to watch him walk into clouds and disappear altogether.
— excerpt from a book I’ll never write