Distilled Infatuation

Preface

In life there are things we cannot understand, things that are unfathomable to an extent to which even the most intelligent scientist would lose sleep. There is one thing I know for sure about this life, though... I was meant to be alone. My loneliness wasn't inclined by seeing people in love or serving the old man who came in by himself every sunday morning. My loneliness only made an appearance when it was least desired or appropriate.

His name would still leave my ears ringing and a battle raging in the pit of my stomach. I couldn't love him. I was intrigued, by the way he would put on his shirt, poking his curly locks through the head hole before his arms through the sleeves. Or the way he would let out a slight exhale of nicotine while smoking his cigarettes before he'd inhale the rest of it fully, letting it settle in his lungs. I was intrigued by how he looked at the stars and saw galaxies, dancing above us as we'd laugh. I was intrigued by how he looked at me and saw something beautiful. I wasn't infatuated with him, not completely at least. It was a distilled fascination, and it tasted eerily similar to the alcohol burning my throat.

I never thought I would be the girl who was afraid of the dark; but here I am at three am, with all of my lights on and the empty abyss of utter disappointment enveloping my entirety. Here I am, thinking of the way my name dripped from his lips, hanging on every syllable. How he had compared me to a wildfire only to always return, always burn, to be engulfed in the flames of my being. Here I am trying to figure out why he stuck around in the first place. Here I am trying the hardest I possibly can to understand how he saw galaxies in something as simple as a night sky, when I don't have the courage to face a fading twilight with just a night light to protect me. He saw so much more of me than I ever imagined existed, not because of the darkness that surrounded me, but because he saw that I had been hurt more times than I ever cared to admit aloud.

He noticed everything. The way my eyes changed colours depending on the sun. How my freckles were seasonal, but always remained if you looked hard enough. He would refer to them as "beautiful face constellations". He would watch me as I'd gaze into the mirror and pick myself apart, noticing every minuscule characteristic and flaw etched into my "too thick thighs" and my "unusually small hands".  I saw him for what he was; a broken boy trying to fix a broken girl. Oh, how i wished someone would have told him that by trying to fix me he would only break himself. It was those exact words that echoed in my brain whilst I sat there, holding my head in my hands and staring blankly at the tear stained note beneath me. It stated specifically that it wasn't I who had destroyed him;  moreover the way my mouth looked when I was happy or how my hair reached beneath my waist. How I'd laugh at scary movies. "The way you see people, Arabelle. It's fascinating. You find the good in everyone except yourself." he wrote. That line hurt the most, It was the very way he saw me: a romanticized, beautiful tragedy. Beautiful is what I am not. With my hair laced between my fingers and not a single tear down my cheek; I realize what I truly am. I am not beautiful. I am a monster. A truly horrendous being. I had become far too invested in him and the idea of another human being possibly thinking of my mixed up words and knotted hair, beautiful. I had become infatuated with the thought of him, and not his presence. Infatuation is toxic, but distilled infatuation is so much more than that. It's something that's not obvious until it's too late. It's the way his fingertips had felt against my arm, or the way he looked at me. It's the reason I stayed, but also the reason a beautiful creature completely broke.. All because of a confused girl, who didn't realize how much she truly did have to lose.