"I'm not sure if you hate yourself or you think you're better than everyone else. Neither of which is good."
That wasn't all she said. "You say you're happy, yet you're one of the least happy people I've ever met."
He'd done it. Somehow. Fed her fear and lost her love.
He believed her once. And forever. Every time she'd proven what he'd wanted to hear. That was essential, the proof. Because he'd never known. Never known what, never known who. Until.
She hadn't walked into his life. They'd fallen, together, not so beautifully, from heaven forever ago. Landing bruised they'd stumbled round darkness seeking hands to hold, huddling with others endlessly cold, distractions distractions gained no real traction but they still didn't know about they until then. How could they? "I didn't know what I was looking for until I found you" he'd say. And "I've finally come home. I've never been here before but I know it's home." And her? Her? She'd soak up God's message in His summer rays. 'You've suffered enough. You can be happy now.' God gifted the chance. He, him not Him, he trusted her. Of course he did. We need to believe, in magic, in miracles, in previous lives together as there's no earthly here-and-now explanation, no charted logistics, no two dimensional roadmap to trace the journey to now. It just was.
They were nothing and entirely alike. They understood every beat of the other - heart, mind and soul - never skipping. In earthly communications they authored dually. In the silence, that space between notes, the pause between words, they were one. A new one born anew. The us.
Four words. 'The time is now.' She knew, from four words. He took his time, maybe ten full dizzying minutes, might've been eight. He could check, he's kept every word of every message - part shrine part dungeon. 'This is the thing we stopped believing in before we ever believed in it.' exclaimed him, after nine or eleven minutes. Because you can't believe in what you can't imagine. We have puppy-dog tails, fluffy heart bunnies and a thousand commerce promoted snippet stories of something called love. Stories of others on which we overlay our personally imperfect inevitably inadequate notion, seeking to stir some cosy emotion. We don't know what love is any more than we know what jumping off a cliff is, not how it feels, not the thoughts of the one falling, falling, falling or why they jumped. Love's an idea without substance. Until.
They'd spend hour upon hour after hours sending text. They could just call each other but message tennis held a purity, a directness from within that mere speech lessened in crass mediation. It, and they, flow flow flowed.
"I know I love being around people but with you I could be happy on a desert island." She'd never felt like that, this was for sure. She'd been made whole. He didn't know what was happening but knew, then and now, it was beyond his power, out of his hands, (so) he surrendered to every reading of her antennae. Sensitive she knew. She felt it. He'd been designated 'the thinker', her 'the feeler'. They both did both.
He "I feel like I'm seeing everything through four eyes", she didn't even joke about her contact lenses. He meant six eyes. Hers, his, theirs. Only now does he know twas three.
"I feel sorry for everyone (else), because they'll never know what it's like to be this happy", he said it, and as all else, he meant it. He didn't know it sounded ridiculous, because it didn't. It was true. Decades of struggles, misery, solitude and never ever ever fitting in were perfect pieces in the jigsaw too big to see - they'd led him right here, to her side, each side, and front and back and below and above and outside and in he swam all around and through her. Until. She threw him.
She was 'the most cynical date you could imagine', "and yet..." she said, and yet. And yet she knew they must get engaged on their second meeting, their second in these lifetimes at very very least.
