Aadatein | An OS Collection ✓

8- Broken

Now the waves they drag you down
Carry you to broken ground
Though I find you in the sand
Wipe you clean with dirty hands
(Spanish Sahara, Foals)
_

Her love for him is this quiet thing that snuck into her heart while she remained unaware. It is what settled like home to the hiraeth within her, like the first showers to the dance restless in a multitude of colors on the resplendent feathers of a peacock.
It is what is, the rhythm of its own kind resonating within her, when one day she looked at him, safely enclosed in his arms and felt a flutter far too profound to ignore. It is what is, when the brush of his lips on her forehead felt like an indentation on her soul, intoxicating her in pure, naïve happiness. It is what is, the all-encompassing embrace of first love to a soul who had never really believed in it.

Her love, like love usually is, is something that makes everything look beautiful. It is something which makes her stupidly happy at the most trivial of the instances. It is, like love usually is, deep, consuming and profound. Her soul sings and his eyes that hold so much, that give a peak into his universe, seem to her like an endless abyss she does not want to escape.

The smile on her face is bright, like the sun in the azure sky, every mention of his name coloring her cheeks with shy scarlet and lighting her eyes with anticipation and excitement. There is a glow to her now, a swing to her stride, a lightness to her already sunshine soul. She hums while she cooks and greets the people in the family who would talk to her more chirpily.
She is a beautiful thing in love and beautiful things often shatter to ruins.
_

The word that glaringly stands out to her in the document she is holding with shaky hands is the one word that is the antithesis
of the relationship that binds her to him. It glares at her with an anger far more vicious than any of the barbs thrown at her in this house  and her heart breaks under the weight of it. Her eyes fill up, the light in them dimming, sharp stabs of agony overpowering her but her gaze refuses to leave the papers in her hand.

The onslaught is something that cascades like waves, crashing against her, drenching her with cold, cold water and eclipsing her sunshine soul. Everything closes in on her as she collapses onto the ground, her petite body quivering with the weight on her soul.
The shy scarlet of first love deepens to stained claret as she realizes it to be unrequited. It is crushing, to be in love like this, to know she would never be what he is to her but more so, that she means so little to him. It bruises her fragile heart that he would bring the papers home when a year hadn't even been up like he couldn't wait to get rid of her. It bruises her, the way he's so giving, even in a relationship that means nothing but mere responsibility to him. She wishes, in a moment, he had been somebody less giving and caring, somebody who would have treated her like people actually treat their responsibility.
Her eyes overflow as all the moments, so intimate in her thoughts, play in her mind, exacerbating her hurt with the new lens of them meaning nothing of that sort to him.
_

She is grateful he isn't around. She isn't sure she'd be able to hide her grief and he who reads her like an open book would pose questions that she did not want to answer. She is grateful but she also wishes he were here so she could ask him why. She kills the thought as soon as it forms. She has always confronted him for any of their disagreements or fights, holding her dignity with pride but she is broken now, a coward who cannot face the confrontation she knows the outcome of. She is broken now but she is also a woman with her dignity her only jewel and she'll not fall down to the low of expecting to be loved just because she loves him. Love is too pure to be forced and she'll never force him for anything.
She cries, shouldering the grief, a broken thing in a love that is unrequited, a beautiful tragedy.
_

It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.

She shatters into a million little pieces, ones that she can never gather back.