I like to pretend that I would slam the door in your face if I found you on my doorstep five years from now. I like to think that, given what happened, I’d tell you to get lost and never call me again. If you’d ask why, I’d list all the things you’d ever done to me, all the times you’d broken my heart and made me feel like being myself wasn’t enough. I like to pretend I’d recognise you for the waste of time and tears you were. That you still are.
But there is that small part of me that is afraid. That small part of me that would hold open the door for you and invite you in, the part that would offer you a cup of coffee and remember that you like it with too much sugar. The part of me that still craves your presence on some days and misses the way you brushed my hair from my forehead or
how you laughed too loud or swore too much or let me call you in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep.
There is one thing I’m sure of, though. I hope you never show up on my doorstep again because God, I have no idea what I would do.
She was born with fierceness in her heart, a wildness that set her apart from others. When she loved, it was all-consuming and white-hot, spreading from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes like wildfire and when she lost, shadows swallowed her whole, plunging her into darkness. But every time she found her fire extinguished, she came back burning brighter than before. Her faith in herself reduced her fears to ashes.