You don't know this yet, but I'm no optimist. I don't really believe in much, nor can I bring myself to trust a lot. To me, the world has always seemed a little too sad, too heartbreaking.
That is not to say I don't believe in anything, mind you. I do.
I believe that people can be kind sometimes, and it can be a lovely thing to witness. I believe there are infinite realities aside from this one, and in one or two of them I may not be so melancholy. I believe in love, oddly enough, even though I haven't been able to experience it properly yet. And then there's you; I believe that you exist. I believe that you are real.
It goes against everything my mind tells me; against all logic that dictates most of my thoughts. And I can't account for it—this certainty that has no bearing in reality and makes little to no sense. It simply...is.
The first time I thought of you was when I was a kid. My parents had taken me to see Romeo and Juliet at the Park on a hot summer night, under a sky that was exquisitely clear and starless. When it started, I was immediately entranced. I held onto every word, mesmerised by every flowing rhyme, secretly wishing I could somehow retain it all and never forget. Silly, I know, but I was only seven.
As the play neared its end, during one of Romeo's final soliloquies, I allowed myself to let my eyes linger as I canvassed the audience—I hadn't quite realized how it consisted mainly of couples until then. I watched as husbands held their wives close, girlfriends grabbed onto their boyfriends' arms, and lovers locked their fingers together, squeezing each other's hands tightly.
I kept wondering how that would be like. Holding someone's hand; having them hold mine. Everybody seemed to have their half, so I logically assumed that when I grew up, I would too. That meant someone was out there, somewhere. Mine, as much as I was theirs.
Now, as a kid, to consider such a scenario is easy. It gets tricky as you grow older, though.
I doubt more than I did, I certainly fear more than I used to, and I hope (much) less than I can remember, back then.
Soon, I started to become aware of time and its workings; how quickly it turns days to months, later years, into who I am. I had my first kiss and then my second. Relationships with people I truly cared about.
Yet, none of them were you.
It's funny. I don't know who you are, where you're from, and how or if we will even get to meet. I don't even know what it is you look like, though I can honestly say it doesn't matter. I don't care if your eyes are blue, green, or hazel. I care that they are kind—I know they will be kind.
On a good day, I'll be so certain you exist I'll barely be able to contain myself imagining when you'll come along and make my lonely become seem somehow secondary. On the bad ones, I entertain the most wicked of thoughts: maybe you really are real, but we will never get to meet.
It isn't sad, not really. You see, it isn't you I doubt, just my luck.
Today, however, is a good day. And I love the idea of you being out there, somewhere, waiting for us to meet.
When we do, I will take you to see Shakespeare in the Park, and as Romeo defies the stars and couples align in pairs, I will reach for your hand.
I can't wait.
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