Meliorism

The Difference

This doesn't really mean anything. It's quite bleak. You don't have to read all of it. -Kaj. 

When all of it is finally over, they’re going to walk up to the stars. They’re going to talk to them, tell them everything that has happened over the past few months. They’re going to blame them, too—but not be mad at them. If there’s one thing they’ve learned, it’s never to be mad at the stars, because when all of it has been said and done, the stars are the only thing that will ever really matter.

“There’s a difference,” he whispers to her ears.

Her ears linger with the crispness of his voice. It stays there for a while, and then fades away, leaving the crispness behind. She wishes it didn’t have to be so goddamn fleeting.

The words come out of her mouth. “I just want it all to stay.”

Though he knows exactly what she means, he doesn’t reply. He doesn’t know what to say. She wouldn’t even listen to him; she doesn’t care about anything. She wouldn’t even let him tell her what the goddamn difference is.

She wants everything to be constant, and the boy constantly tells her that nothing is constant. She’d insist that there is something constant—change—and he’d insist that change doesn’t count, but then she’d ask him why and he wouldn’t be able to answer.

Right now they’re lying on the boy’s bed. It was a dark, dark room they’re in. Sunlight is filling through the blinds, and it sets out an eerie illumination across the tiny room.

The girl turns away from that light. She’s resting her head on the boy’s small chest. She can hear his heartbeat. She closes her eyes and tries to imagine that everything is on fire because fire comforts her, and things that comfort her form the best solutions. All she needs right now is a solution—and, well, maybe a little consolation.

“Sweetheart, it’ll be over soon,” the boy tries to reassure her. He’s almost pleading, really. The girl’s always been sad. The boy’s always wanted to help remove sadness from people. Maybe they’re meant to be; maybe they’re not. No one will ever be able to know; unless, of course, one of them actually shows something.

That’s the main problem. They don’t show each other anything. They thrive in emptiness. It’s always been empty. They’ve never been able to fill it with anything—not even thin air. They’ve never been able to find something good enough to be able to fill the empty part of their love’s glass.

They need to realize it. They need to realize that true love—it isn’t about silence. It’s about the bonding of two hearts—of words, of art, of anything at all. It’s not necessarily magic. Magic is something made; love isn’t. Love is something formed, not made.

That’s the difference the boy wants the girl to know.