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I’ve never been one to believe in the notorious red strings of fate. It’s cliché, for one, and the sentiment of believing that there’s this one person, sitting on their hands and waiting for you to show up is unrealistic. I fall easily. It can be seen as a weakness, but I believe it’s a strength.
You’re my best friend. I should have seen it, really, but we both know I’m clueless where it really counts. You’re by my side through thick and thin, horrendous and magnificent, insignificant and crucial. You’re more reliable than any crutch fashioned from metal and various plastics.
The string has always been there. I just didn’t wish to see it.
I look at you more often than I wish to admit. What can I say? The beauty you have both on the outside and contained within your soul is powerful enough to bring even the most infamous villains to their knees. I stare, and I fall into a daze, but until recently, until this moment, I don’t truly see.
That can wait for a moment.
I watch you zip about the street, saving every and anyone from anything resembling danger. Not even a rabbit is at risk of suffering the enemy of the week’s wrath. You make a scarlet streak with your speed, and it comes to a stop when you finally reach me. I should appreciate it for its deeper meaning.
I don’t.
I watch your heart get thrown about. I won’t say something like ‘they didn’t deserve you’, because no one does. No one could possibly be worth your time, your light. I’ve met so many of those you’re enraptured with, and yet they remain a mere candle in contrast to your starlight.
I hold back the ‘I told you so’ waiting on my tongue. The constructs of happiness, joy, love, and hope that stand proud and resolute in your eyes are crumbling around the edges. Not falling down, no. You’re much too strong and too caring.
For now, you crack. You bend, but you never break. You trust me to glue whatever falls off back together. I never say it, but I would take apart my soul to fix you.
Your hoodie has a loose thread, crimson jarring against the pale cerulean of my sheets. I ignore that as well.
I trust you with my life; I suppose that’s implicit, though. I get a little reckless, I’ll admit, but most of that courageousness stems from the fact that I know you’ll catch me. I should stop, I know I should, but you’ve never let me fall.
Except that I’ve fallen for you in a way that you don’t seem to see. That has been the one and only time you haven’t caught me.
I don’t want you to.
I pride myself on my sharp eyesight, perfected perception. This? I couldn’t plan for this.
You’re sitting on my bed once more, head on my lap as if I’m a pillow. Your eyes, astoundingly beautiful and shimmering with life, are staring at something on my ceiling. I can only stare at you.
You ask me if I believe in soulmates. I tell you the truth. You don’t believe me, though I admit it’s well-founded, what with how much of myself I put into love. Your eyes move to fixate on me. They do what they always do, and suck every ounce of air I hoped to keep in my lungs.
I don’t mind.
You ask me if friends can be soulmates. I don’t truly have an answer for you this time; I’ve never given it much thought. My gaze drags over every possible inch of your face. Your hair is the colour of the bricks I imagine our house having, several years down the road and in another universe. Your eyes remind me of the trees we used to sit under, in our younger years.
You don’t look as tired as you should, for someone who has seen as many things as you have. You’re as strong as you’ve ever been, and part of me wishes the stress I feel would stay as well-hidden.
You ask me what it’s like to give your all to someone. I tell you you should know. What I don’t tell you is that it’s what I feel when I so much as think of you. You try and laugh, but the glimmer in your eyes flickers imperceptibly. My hand moves to your face on its own accord, and I can’t find it within my heart to take it back. You seem equally okay with.
You’re so warm. I know there’s a legitimate reason behind it, but the romantic in me, the one that gets stupid around you, whispers that it’s the fire of your soul. It rages in the most stunning of roars, leaving those incapable of handling your love as piles of ash.
Sometimes I wonder if I’d be able to handle it, give you what you needed, or disappoint you like so many others.
I wish I could describe the look in your eyes.
You whisper something. I don’t catch it, because my focus was so intent on your looks. My lips part in hope to ask for a repetition.
I actually see you move, and I appreciate the out. You stop halfway, head tilted strangely with lips ever-so-slightly puckered. My fingers bury themselves into the impossible mess of your ginger waves. I want to savour this, but I can tell you’re taking my hesitation the wrong way. I know you’ll bolt in less than a second, so just before I fully press my mouth to yours, I let out a whisper of my own.
Your breath hitches; from my words or my actions, I’ll never know. I try to pour every emotion you need to feel into this kiss, but I couldn’t if I tried. There’s not enough time, not enough air held in my chest.
There’s something weighing down my heart—no. No, it’s not being weighed down. I smile when I can put a name to the feeling.
A string is going taut.