"You, my dear, have the soul of a writer."
I cringed before glancing at him with a scowl. "You mean the soul of a poet?"
"No. God, no. You're the furthest thing from a poet. Whereas a poem has the capability of designing a truth endowed with ribbo...
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IT WAS WRITTEN ON A CRUMPLED POST-IT NOTE
It was one of those instances where it should've worked out. Every piece had fallen into place, every cliché coming to life. They operated together with a natural sense of grace that has since been unmatched, as though born two halves of the same soul. They grew up together, experienced life together—every changing moments that happened throughout youth were within each other's company; first time riding a bike, first time driving a car, first kiss, first heartbreak, teenage angst, birthday parties, minor falls to excessive wounds. Major tragedies and the mornings that came after. Whatever blueprints that scribbled out the skeleton of their existences, it had each other's fingerprints on it.
Yet, as perfect it was, the flaws ran deep. And as time withers, they came to realize that their fantasy together was just that—a fantasy.
He was her brother's best friend. A skinny boy with unkempt brown hair and light eyes framed by thick lashes, coming from an impoverished family that barely had the means of keeping him fed. She was the apple of her daddy's eye, a little thing with golden hair and a beautiful smile. She went about the small town in a dance, everybody was her friend, and those who weren't just didn't know her yet. It was easy for him to gravitate towards her light—still is, two decades later.
They had been paired together for their entire youth, hearing the same comments over and over. You're gonna marry that boy one day; you better treat her good, she's gonna be the momma of your children. Their mothers sipped on mimosas and watched them play as though they could see their future's unfold—clumsy teens figuring it out while holding hands, how stunning they make each other look without even the slightest idea. A true and glorious romance that they had a center view to bear witness, from unaware and uncaring children to a picturesque description of soulmates.
Soulmates.
The idea made her cringe; she's considered it far too many times in regard to him, had it told to her even more by people she never asked. The word felt too big, too intense, too definitive. Something that was written, a fraction of the universe's plan that she would have no control over—overwhelming. The love she felt was real, but the promise of that being the only love she was ever going to feel for her entire life made her chest wrench in sadness.
She wanted a taste of what everyone had to offer—she wanted the world, and its touch. The sun and the stars. Before her infliction had gotten the better of her, the voices suddenly feeling more hostile and deranged as she grew into a young woman and settled into her body, there was a time she could see herself wandering away from Bon Temps on foot, exploring the backroads of nameless states and hundred year old saloons. Seeing God in the face of a handsome stranger, dancing with His angels within the smog of a bar at 2am.
