by Nikita Gill
And this time, for the first time ever, she speaks. “You’re lying.”
Why I Hate Romantic Comedies
1. Because they say that for every single boy who counts the stars, there is a little girl who is wishing upon one. (And they never mention what happens after the stars fade into morning and the other falls into oblivion)
2. Because they say that people fall in love when the time is right, they are true to each other and are ready to be together. (But no one ever mentions how she is so damaged she can barely think, and he is so cynical that he may never be ready.)
3. Because they insist that your soulmate is going to be a good, kind, caring human being who will love you from the bottom of their hearts. (This is due to the fact that even if there is someone for everyone, bad people are immune to the soulmate theory.)
4. Because they always have a happy ending (And real life begins after the sun has set and she has realized that he may not be everything she hoped for and he begins to have second thoughts about commitment..)
5.
Because everything is assured in its predictability (And the trouble with predictability is that there is no room to be surprised.)
6. Because there are such a things as a big romantic gesture that makes everything all right. (And no one talks about what happens if she says no and that he’s made too many mistakes and her love for him has dried up.)
7. Because even if I hate that every single thing they say is, and believe untrue, there is something that draws me back to them every single time. (It’s that stupid, tiny, romantic broken bone in my body that one day, I will find someone who tastes like gold, talks like silver and has a solid platinum heart too.)
Conversations by Tens
Inside Out
“I think I wear my soul inside out.”
“What?”
“My soul. It’s inside out.”
“That’s…a strange thing to say.”
“I have all the symptoms though.”
“And what are the symptoms of this…disea-”
“It’s not a disease.”
“All right. What are the symptoms, then?” “I care too much about all the wrong things, I worry about odd things, my heart breaks too easily and my brain feels a little too asymmetrical to the things that are supposed to be fun.”
“Fun?”
“You know…parties and alcohol and…normal things. Like that.” “Oh.”
“What?”
“Nothing. What do you care too much about?”
“Everything. Global warming. The whales. Aliens. Israel. Sarajevo. The Ozone-”
“I get it. Everything that counts and you can do nothing about by yourself.”
“You sound cynical.”
“You sound paranoid.”
“That’s mean.”
“It’s just honest. What worries you?””The fact that you are too self involved to notice.”
“Notice what?”
“If I disappear.”
“…”
“It’s true.”
“You idiot. Ofcourse I will notice if you disappear. I’d notice it a hell of a lot.”
“…why?”
“Because then who would worry about global warming, and the whales, and the aliens and Israel and Sarajevo and- why are you smiling?” “Because I figured something out about you.”
“What’s that?” “You wear your soul inside out too.”
On Wishes
“I wish you wouldn’t be that way.”
“That is the thing with wishes. They’re flimsy, broken and unfixed.”
“You say that. But I have some that came true.”
“What kinds were those?”
“I wished for bigger feet, and smaller eyes and longer hair. They all came true.”
“You wished to grow up and we all have to grow up. Our bones and cells, sort of, force us to.”
“And you? Did you ever wish for anything?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because my father told me to not believe in wishes.”
“Because?” “Because he didn’t believe in them.”
“Do you always do what your father says?”
“Yes. I never stand in the rain, or wear red socks, or eat chocolate, or believe in wishes.”
“Oh. Well. At least I know now.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I think I shall fall in love with a boy who wears red socks, hates chocolate and refuses to kiss me in the rain.”
“And why is that?” “Because what is life without a challenge?”
Issues
“I have issues.”
“That’s a revelation.”
“No. Seriously. I have issues.”
“All right. I’ll bite. What’s going on?”
“I don’t think I’m ever going to find someone who’ll love me.”
“…”
“What?”
“You aren’t serious, right?”
“I am glad my pain makes you so incredulous.”
“All right, let me try this again. Who am I?”
“You’re-” “Don’t answer that. That was rhetorical. I am the girl who spends hours huddled in a corner of a library, trying to find what you love the most about Marlow, just so I can write you a poem worthy of Shakespeare. I’ve made books my lovers, hours my enemies and you the only story.”
“You do that for-” “I am the girl who will split her fingers in two and let the ink fall on pages and pages, just so I can paint you a review. All this just so it may make more sense to you, than that art teacher who disregards your Rubenesque, Rembrandt inspired paintings everyday. And I don’t even like classical art.”
“Why-” “I am the girl has watched you break her, over and over and over again, but I am still here. My wrists are thinner, my spine arched in burden of the unspoken and the fact that I am terrified to touch an instrument anymore, simply because you hate the idea of a song that is about heartbreak. And heartbreak is all I can write about.”
“Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because I am done being in love with you.”
“Why?”
“I am in love with someone else. Someone who needs it more than you.”
“Who?!” “Me.”
The Wanting
“All right. I have decided we can’t fall in love.”
“Huh?”
“I mean, it just doesn’t make sense for us to be in love.”
“A little late for that don’t you think?”
“You mean we’re already in knee deep.”
“Yeah.”
“We could wade out.”
“…”
“Look, it just won’t work.”
“What on earth is wrong with you?”
“What on earth is wrong with me? I will tell you whats wrong with me, I want it all.” “As in?” “I want to have children with your eyes and your smile, my mother’s hair and your mother’s nose. I want them to sing like you, and write like your mother and paint like my mother. And I want them to have both our fathers’ fortitude. I want good strong boys who are god fearing and kind, and lovely, kind girls who are never without a book in their hands. I want our families to love and understand and accept our love and support us and to live happily ever after.”
“And you think being out of love is the solution to all these wants.”
“Yes. Because I hate wanting things.”
“Marry me.”
“You never listen to a thing I say. I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because of the wants!”
“That’s the difference between us.”
“What is?” “Your wants are my needs.”
Textbook Breakup
“We need to talk.”
“I fucking hate horoscopes. They lie every single fucking time.”
“Not to me they don’t.”
“Sure. You were saying something.”
“We need to break up.”
“I agree.”
“Huh?” “I fell in love with you before you were the boy who sang about my problems in your songs, and before you tried to evolve me into your version of a better me and before I saw how you treated your neighbour’s dog and before I knew how much you believed in horoscopes.”
“What’s wrong with horoscopes?”
“Nothing, except for the fact that you never really thought of it as a novel idea that you share the same day as one twelfth of the world.” “Well you aren’t-” “I’m not so perfect myself, I know. You loved me better before you read my poetry and understood how damaged I was and knowing about my temper tantrums and wished I wasn’t so intensely passionate about my pipe dreams.”
“Everything is always so logically put with you.” “What do you expect? I gave you my heart a year and a half ago and you’ve had them both beating in your chest. Now you’re going to give it back, all broken and I’m going to break with it.”
“This is it, then.”
“It’s been a long time coming.”
“You knew already?”
“Oh baby. I knew it was broken the minute I began to look at horoscopes to tell me how we were make it through the day.”
Constructive Criticism
“Tell me what you think.”
“Of the poem?”
“No, of my face. Yes, the poem.”
“I was going to say, because your face is just ugly.”
“Very funny. Read.”
“…”
“What did you think?”
“Why did you write this?”
“I wrote it for you.”
“For me?”
“Yes.”
“You make me self conscious when you say things like that.” “I know.”
“I’m not worth this you know. It’s too beautiful to be about me.”
“What does that mean?”
“I am half a girl. I deserve half a poem.”
“That isn’t true. You still haven’t told me what you really thought about it.” “It’s as broken and complex and half hearted as a sad song about the way you feel ink trail between your fingers like it’s blood. There is no reason for it, it’s the kind of beautiful that is there just for being there. It happened, it’s a moment in time forever frozen and to be remembered in a way that candles that burn in holy places should be. It’s a forever, all by itself- Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because you believe you deserve half a poem.”
“I do. I am too damaged and broken and unhinged to deserve a full one- stop shaking your head!”
“You are damaged and broken and unhinged. But so are shooting stars and comets.”
Starving
“What’s your greatest wish?”
“Mine? Really?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Just curious, I guess.”
“It isn’t exactly a weather question is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not small talk.”
“Are you always this difficult to talk to?”
“Are you always this interogative?”
“Yes.”
“...” “Answer the question.”
“You’re going to hate the answer.”
“Let me decide that.”
“...”
“Well?” “I am so hungry for someone to love me for being the library haunting, candle lighting, Wordsworth loving, paper burning, mirror hating idiot that I am.”
“That’s your greatest wish?” “It’s too much isn’t it?”
After Words
“I wish you would give it back to me.”
“Why? You’ll just break it again.”
“It’s my damned heart.”
“Yeah? Well, you take terrible care of things that are yours.”
“Fine. Keep it. I am equal parts concrete and soul anyway.”
“You say that, but I’m not entirely sure that you are. I think you’re deep, and fragile and broken, and that makes you beautiful.”
“Again, concrete and soul. ”
“I wish you wouldn’t make this so hard.” “So hard? I’m making this easy. You gave me dreams of half feathered swans and a stupid house on an endless beach and a city made of an ocean, and now you’re taking it away. But at least I had them for a while.”
“Don’t…be that way.” “I am going to be awake every single night and wish for a shooting star, so I can wish upon that shooting star to wish thoughts of you away.”
“I wish this could be easier on you. You gave me so much and so many too.”
“So much of love and so many wishes?”
“No, so much wishing and so many loves.”
“Please give it back to me.”
“I have to keep a piece of you, don’t you understand? I do not want to forget you.”
“But it’s my god damned heart.”
“If you liked it so much you wouldn’t have given it to me in the first place.”
“Fuck you.”
Cinnamon Souls
“You’re mixing water in your coke again.”
“I know.”
“You do that when you worry.”
“I’m always worried.”
“No, you’re usually cinnamon-in-your-tea worried. This is water-incoke worried and that is seriously beginning to freak me out.”
“I know.”
“...”
“What?”
“What are you worried about?”
“You’re going to think it’s stupid.”
“Try me.”
“Well...do you ever wonder about the kind of guy you’re waiting for?” “I think we all wonder about that guy, love.”
“I’ve been thinking about him more often than not lately. What he would be like, I mean.”
“Oh. Well...if it helps any, I know what mine would be like.”
“Really?” “Sure. He will be tall, so I have to stand on my toes to kiss him. He will be kind so I can tell him anything without fearing him judging me. He will be strong so he can carry me when I fall.”
“Wow. Sounds like you have this figured out. I guess we all have some idea about what our soulmate should be like.”
“You know what yours will be like then?”
“Who, me?”
“No, I’m talking to the little green man standing behind you.”
“What?! Shit! He’s back!”
“Very funny.”
“I am, thanks.”
“So you know what your soulmate will be like?”
“Sure.”
“And?”
“He’ll love me like he has never ever known what its like to be in mind stiring, bone crushing, soul shaking, heart breaking, completely fractured love ever before. Oh, and he should like cinnamon.” “...” “In the mean time, I’m putting more cinnamon in my tea.”
Austenesque
“Hello.”
“Good afternoon. Why have you come to see me today?”
“Because I had to.”
“Tell me what’s bothering you.”
“I lose my breath because I can’t believe this is all I am going to be.”
“What is wrong with what you are?”
“I’m not loved.”
“You have your friends, your family-” “Come on, you know what I mean. The devil may care what the world thinks, passionate, can’t breathe without each other, catch you when you fall kind of love.”
“Ah.”
“I don’t even know how to begin to find it in this world.” “What do you mean?”
“I mean I prefer living in my books. I like how that makes me feel. And then I’m just disappointed.”
“And how does that make you feel?” “It makes me feel sometimes, like I am completely unreasonable to say, that in a time of smart phones , where apple isn’t a fruit, and where internet pornography is wh
at tides us over till the next relationship comes along…I am looking for the kind of love Austen wrote of.”
“I disagree.”
“Why?”
“Because I have a feeling you are the last reasonable person left on this planet.”
Fifteen on Humanity
Obsession
It takes fourteen minutes and twelve seconds to walk to your home from mine every day. Your mother never fails to smile at me when she opens the door. I never fail to notice that it doesn’t reach her eyes anymore.
You leave your door open an exact two point three centimeters. I don’t think you do it on purpose. There is something wrong with the wood that has left it that way. I pause one foot outside the door and listen to you cough, trying to determine how sick you feel today. I hate that every time I think you are particularly ill, I am always right.
Six months, seventeen days and fourteen hours . That is how long its been since the doctors told us you had an illness. I sat there with your parents, listening to a man who said words like ‘terminal’ and ‘leukemia’, and counted the number of times he said ‘patient’ as if it were your name (Seventeen).
The blood bank says one unit is four hundred and fifty milliliters and I watch as they put the needle into my arm to pump out the blood into a little plastic bag. It takes exactly five minutes twenty one seconds, because I’m holding my arm so tight. If I could give you all my blood so you could feel better for just a day, I would.
It has been seven days, twelve hours and fourteen minutes since the ambulance came for you. Six days, fifteen hours and seven minutes since the doctors told us they couldn’t help you anymore. I am counting the drips of the glucose as it goes into your arm, my body wrapped around yours, trying to pretend this is a bad dream.
You say noisily, a laugh escaping your parched mouth, that I am obsessed with numbers. I want to tell you you’re wrong. My obsession is you. I say nothing. This is the first time you have laughed in one month, three weeks and two days.