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Captain knew whatever he felt had to be kept a secret. Between the restricted teachings of penmanship and geography in his boyhood and confined lodgings of the narrow trenches, he decided that loving just wasn’t worth it. He hid his giddy smiles behind porcelain cups filled with warm brick red tea, heirlooms he kept on his person for almost his entire life.
He hid infatuated glances with faux pensive eyeing of his paperwork whilst the sunlight illuminated agreeably against whoever had garnered his interest. He felt like a liar, like every time he complimented a man he was concealing some nefarious plot.
Love is like a letter, which needed to be enshrouded by an envelope and Captain’s all-consuming shame. His feelings were like a ticking time bomb, waiting to explode at the slightest hint of exposure. The last thing he would do was indulge in sexual deviancy, what created a flutter of anxiety for him seemed to inspire delight in another. Sometimes love came around the corner, bumping into his shoulder and knocking him off his course. He didn’t know what to do, he felt crazed. It was easier to pretend he felt nothing at all.
——
Thomas had high expectations. If he wasn’t standing under a balcony serenading his fair Juliet, then he wasn’t really living love at all. The stars had to align for perfectly, the candlelight just the right amount of revealing so Thomas could gaze upon his dearest’s features. He’d feel lightheaded once they met, like he was underwater. Soon he’d be longing to be submerged again. She’d be charmed by his poise and eloquence, while he wrote sonnets about her eyes. There would never be any doubt or disdain, everything would be right. The imbalance in his life would straighten out in matter of seconds. He’d have what he always wanted, he’d be loved.
It was almost ironic that the parts of himself he chose not to engage with were problems that he could use to his advantage. If he wrote half as much about neglect or disappointment as much as he did about his image of love, he might’ve been remembered for something other than a flighty poet. It was almost heartbreaking that the closest thing he ever got to something staying with him forever was a bullet wound and pain that never truly went away. It was inescapable, so he loved himself. Love was like a poem, it somehow found the perfect way to rhyme and come back around to him. Yet he could never articulate it perfectly, always trailing off on the third line of the first stanza.
——
Pat had always been a hopeless romantic. He had a memory of his early childhood in which he picked flowers for a girl in his class he fancied, only for her to like his friend better. He was still unshakeably resilient, so he brushed it aside in favour of focusing on his goals. Love cropped up every now and then, like a neighbourhood cat of sorts. Then he met Carol, and Pat suddenly believed. He believed in those people who said you’d fall immediately, you’d love deeply, you’d fall in love at first sight. He did, when he looked at her, he saw a bright future. Her beautiful brown locks complimented the rich velvet of her dress.
Love was like a promise, held together by wedding bands. Kissing her at the altar was the best moment of his life. Morris’ toast afterwards about Carol’s generosity only made him love her more. If people fell, he was plummeting. He smoothed down his brown suit, never feeling more alive. He wished he could preserve this feeling, like a fossil in amber. It was set in stone, he was absolutely smitten. Nothing could ruin the perfectness of their union.