new year's day [h.s.]

Prologue

"I'm a little scared of being

Someone that you're scared to love.

You don't talk the way he did,

And you don't say the things he did

I'm not who I was back then but still"

SONG: "How Do I Tell You?" // Lizzy McAlpine

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"Do you believe in love?"

A common question, really. Maybe not as common as "why is the sky blue?" or "where do babies come from?" Regardless, it's a question I've been asked on numerous occasions throughout my 20-some odd rotations around the Sun on the shithole they call Earth. Be it me having my own 3 AM philosophical or moral crisis, that Huey Lewis and the News song showing up on one too many playlists, or discussing the tragedies of Shakespeare in school, I've spent more time than I care to admit thinking about it.

I know I love my family.

I know I love my friends.

I know I love my dog, even when he pisses himself when he gets too excited.

I love my work... most of the time.

Do I love myself? Given this is only the first time we're meeting, we can unpack this later.

But do I believe in true love? The "breaking Sleeping Beauty and Snow White's curses with a kiss" kind of love? The Jim and Pam, "got [the engagement ring] a week after we started dating," kind of love? The "world stops turning, time stops moving but you keep drifting towards one another, eyes locking across a crowded room and hearts feeling like they're trying to pound sludge through your veins" kind of love?

Once upon a time, I didn't. Funny, considering that to me, this all feels like it'll be far from your usual fairytale. But it's also funny because never in my wildest dreams did I think some silly little letters would lead to a change in perspective on something as all-encompassing - as cosmically planned and fated - as true love, soulmates.

Now? 

I think true love is hand-picking your own flowers, wrapping them up in paper and twine. The very first time you go to the you-pick farm, you find yourself drawn to the rows of roses. A sea of reds, yellows, pinks, and whites, each bush gently swaying as the spring breeze whispers to the petals. With your sights set, you make your way over, zeroing in on the ones that look just perfect. Clippers in hand, you succumb to the siren sound of the blooming flower in front of you, grasping its stem as you prepare to snip it away from the only home it has ever known. You're so concerned with claiming it for your bouquet, you fail to remember one key detail: roses have a defense mechanism. 

Several little thorns, pricking your palm and fingertips just as the spindle pricked Aurora. You quickly retract your hand, but don't quite seem to learn your lesson as you blindly reach back in. Again, prick after prick you're left with several beads of blood decorating your palm; it's enough for you to step away from the roses altogether, seeking something that won't harm you for simply trying to make it yours.

Each time you return, you eye the roses with caution but never make an attempt to uproot them. After noticing your frequent excursions to the flower farm, someone offers to join you. Reluctant to share your slice of floral paradise, you agree, both of you setting off on a pair of old cruiser bikes in need of a serious paint job. They notice how your gaze lingers on the roses as you enter the extensive field, and how akin it is to the way their gaze lingers on you.