Meliorism

Away

And as we were walking down the street, I could feel her coat brushing against my bare skin. I saw her down the block and I didn't have the chance to grab my own coat, so I was stuck with a band shirt I'd bought a few months ago, and tattered jeans. It's alright, though. Every time I was with her, I felt warm and secured. Every time I was with her, an invisible force would start to surround my body, making me feel slightly less alone and more, more, more loved.

She told me to follow her, and because I had nothing else to do, I did just that. There was something in her voice that made me feel immediately special, as if there were nothing else in the world but her voice and my absolute submission to it. I'd follow that voice and it would lead me to a place of loss, and then I would appreciate it even more. In the August wind, it sounded just like her.

"Have you seen that film about the French boy who would go to visit his family every summer, and would leave again to seek adventure and stories he'd later tell everybody?" she asked, her voice intricate and precise. "It's awesome, Matt. Real awesome and beautiful."

She didn't know it yet, but I loved her.

"I haven't yet," I replied, still in a trance. "What's it called?"

"I forgot what it's called. Do you think I care about what it's called?" She now turned back to look at me, and I saw genuine surprise in her face, as if saying, taunting, I thought you knew me so well.

I shook my head and laughed in spite of myself. We stayed silent for a while, and in that silence I found rare solace: I saw the trees swaying underneath the pale sky which illuminated everything there was to be illuminated. I saw everything beautiful, and only the things that were beautiful. I saw her.

"It's just so harsh at home. I just want to walk," she said, her voice still involute.

"Away?" I asked.

"Is there anything else I can do?" she asked back. Her voice was so, so soft. "Away," she confirmed.

We'd been walking for almost an hour now, with no real destination. At first I'd thought she was leading me to town, to go see a movie or get ice cream. But then she turned a curb that led to the forest, and suddenly I realized what she's doing: She's introducing me to places I'd never managed to love.

And so I held her hand.

And she held it back.

I couldn't stop looking at her, and she wouldn't look at me. She was staring at her feet, making sure that one foot would step in front of the other, making sure that she was indeed walking away from home. I was staring at her, making sure that she was still intact. I couldn't afford to see her broken.

Finally, we reached the edge of the field of greens. The leaves were starting to fall off, really, but still the forest looked alive and dark. She'd told me once that it's only through being dark that you can manage to be alive. And I believed her, because what was there left to believe? There's nothing else.

She took me into the trees and hid the both of us from the narrow cemented road that the local government had managed to build. She dragged me behind her, probably hoping that I was willing to follow her away from her home. And her hopes were right: I was more than willing to be with her.

We were hidden by the trees. The air tasted like summer, and winter, and fall, and spring. The canopy above us covered the sky, making it look as if the sky were nothing more than a canvas on where and what we both truly were.

I looked back down at her, and suddenly I was so glad I didn't take a coat with me. This was her warmth, and it was enough, and it was telling me to say things I wasn't supposed to.

"I love you," I told her. "I want to be with you. I want to kiss you, and I want to help you. And I love you."

The darkness of the forest covered half her face, but she looked beautiful as ever. Her smile--it wasn't sly; there was something else found there, something genuine, a puzzle I wouldn't be able to crack.

"I love you too, Adam. I've loved you for a very long time now." She held my face in her hands. They were both soft, and I could feel her wrist, her throbbing wrists. I tried to look away from the scars on her right wrist--she was left-handed--because along with running away from home, we were also supposed to forget all the tragedies it had left on her.

She started to kiss me, and she was crying. She started telling me not to leave her, and I started promising that I'd never do that, that I'd protect her anytime. She started telling me that her parents were going on separate ways now, and I started telling her that it didn't matter.

It was just the two of us among the many trees, and we'd started to tell each other things.