writing

blink

It is here, on a nearly empty beach on a mysteriously breezy winter’s night, that you realize he is your missing piece. He’s pointing out the planes in the sky, each one with a series of letters and numbers that mean nothing to you, but everything to him, and such everything to you, and he’s so passionate about it you can’t help but smile, one of those smiles that goes all the way up to your awestruck eyes, crinkling in the corners. It’s while he’s pointing out constellations and talking about space, and with the crashing sound of the ocean that he doesn’t even like to swim in in the background, that you feel it. You’ve never felt it before so you aren’t sure, but you feel it when he pulls you close and looks at you like you are the stars and together, you form the brightest constellation in the clear sky, the one both of you can look at hundreds of miles away and still feel it. You cannot for the life of you remember the name of the obscure small Montana town he grew up in, but you’ll forever remember his stories of standing up for his best friend and ending up in his first fight, and you’ll treasure the little things like his obsession with his hair or the way he’d tickle you until you were both out of breath and you pretended to hate it but not-so-secretly loved it or how he’d yell at drivers from the car but never actually have the nerve to honk his horn. Soon, the perfect pieces will be ripped apart by a cruel twist of life’s hand, but you’ll remember how well they felt like they once fit and be grateful for it. Blink, and you’re skin on skin, savoring each other’s green eyes without the thought of this ever being the last sight, hearing his heartbeat slow as you test how long he can hold his breath, swearing the entire time that he is going to faint from lack of oxygen. Blink again, and you’re blinking back tears of laughter as he and all his friends yell at the television during the sports games that you never expected to have such a stake in or as you all play games on the couch, with every music genre playing in the background and empty beer bottles lining the ever-moving coffee table that he and his best friend argue over constantly but he always surrenders because he was supposed to be the nice guy. Blink once more, and you’re blinking back tears on the same beach, this time on a warm sunny day, wishing it was cold and he was there to give you his favorite jacket. This time you’ll shiver because you feel incomplete without him, and as the planes pass overhead, somehow, you’ll remember the name of one. You’ll name one and wish on the stars that as it passes, he’s in the pilot’s seat and that he sees you, and he will. He will be the only one who sees you, because he’s the only one that ever did.

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