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"Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken."
—Sonnet 116, Shakespeare
THERE WAS something so inexplicably soothing about him. How calm he was with the pain that was inside him. And by the pact they made, she never tried to analyze him—at least not in front of him.
It was as if she could see right through him. See every single mitochondria that gave him energy, the red blood cells that carried the oxygen to the furthest points of his body, the lungs that were opening with his inhale and deflating with the exhalation. Yet his eyes rarely said anything. She wished he wouldn't wear the glasses that covered the depth of his soul.
Eyes were the mirror of the soul, but not with him. He swallowed his feelings deep within and locked them in a little box—don't we all? But, even if he tried to push everyone away, even if he was brainwashed from deep within that he had to stay alone, she never left him alone.
It was horribly silly. How she couldn't give him the space he needed and leave him alone. How he was the air she was breathing—it was the same shit you read in the books that made you wonder if real love was true. If you deserved such a beautiful and happy-ending love.
But he was broken beyond. So was she. And the sounds of a broken heart only pulled her closer to him with the need to soothe. With the need to heal. With the need to nourish. This world was a mirror of how horrible we all are, and he was one of the good souls. It was her destiny to watch over him and not let this world take him.
He was taken too soon from us—no, she will never hear those words said about him.
And her... She was too good for him in his mind. A woman that has fought for her place with bloody knuckles and dainty smiles. She wasn't different from everyone else - the same sorrowful backstory, the same haunting nightmares, the same mistakes. She was just like everyone else. But not to him.
It was the way he couldn't read her through. The way his senses immediately shut down when she is around. The way he cannot tell if the jacket she is wearing is linen or leather. The way he cannot tell if she has changed her perfume or if she is using a different shampoo now. The piece of serenity scared him, because he got used to the overwhelming senses.
He got used to the never-ending sounds, to the air surrounding him, to the heartbeats—God, he was malfunctioning beside her. But that was just an answer to his prayers all these years ago when he was begging for all of this to stop. When he just wanted to have a piece of quiet. When he wanted to focus on himself instead of on the world that was surrounding him.
And with her - it was silent. When she wraps her hand around his arm, guiding him through the streets - he doesn't know where they are. He doesn't feel the people around him. He doesn't feel the hardness of the ground and the lingering coldness of the weather. There was just her.
That's no miracle. That's no answer to his prayers. That's simply love. Passionate and consuming. That's why he couldn't tell her how calm it was beside her. That's why he took a step back. Because he doesn't deserve this serenity. He doesn't deserve to be loved. Because he didn't know what it meant.
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SUNNY SPEAKS!—
this is a prologue and I'm in love with them— and watch the way i made the parallel that he cannot feel her when he feels everything around him and the way she is the one able to read him— that's love, kids
