Love Never Fails

Chapter 11: Dara

I get more time with him. That's all that matters.

I know. It wasn't a date. But in a parallel world it could have been. And it would have been a very nice one. It checks all the boxes for a romantic comedy. However, in the real world, our "meet cute" is nothing more than a series of unplanned chances that have put two very compatible brothers in a common setting. Whether one of them is starting to hold a hidden crush on the other is irrelevant, because sadly for him, he had to keep all hints to his feelings hidden.

Sigh.

Maybe good friends will just do. Maybe that's what David felt for Jonathan.

Why does this have to be so difficult?

I turn up the volume. I'm listening to some depressing rock from the beginning of the century on my earphones, laying down in the big bed of my sister's room -because the supplementary bed is super uncomfortable- with my mind and my eyes lost in the massive blank space of the ceiling. If mum was here she would passive-aggressively suggest that "Original Songs from the website are so much better and uplifting," but shut up, mom-in-my-head. Let me listen to my music in peace.

She would not have liked to see my sister and I fight either. We would probably be having a family sit-down to talk about it and sort it out if it wasn't because she had to go for her dinner at Bethel.

"I can't believe you won't even apologise, Dara. It's like I don't know you anymore." Those were her last words before they left the room. In a sense, I know she's right. I don't even know why I got mad and acted out like I did this morning. That's also not the Dara I know.

The Dara I know... Or the Dara I used to know, would have smiled back, put his head down, and followed the lead. He would have dressed up in the morning, done a bit of informal street witnessing with his sister, would have done everything everyone expects of him everytime. He would never have stayed his ground, or done his thing. He would have been a good sheep, following the flock, focusing on kingdom interests, not in his own.

If he had done that, the Dara I used to know would not have had time alone with Nick and wouldn't be thinking of his smile and his curly hair every waking moment. Or the impossible petfect way his shirt fits him. Or how the tone of his voice feels like a billion hugs. Or about how cute is his little addiction to coffee.

That Dara wouldn't be daydreaming about imposibles that are only going to make it more difficult to live in his skin in the long run. That are going to cost him his life if he's not careful.

He wouldn't be turning around in a big bed in a hotel room, his tears rolling trough his nose and falling heavily on the duvet while The Corrs' "What Can I Do" makes its way to the playlist.

But here he is.

Here I am.

Neither choice I make will ever be good enough. If I chose to be a follower, beigely walking the path that has been laid in front of me for centuries past and that I'm expected to perpetuate, I have to deny my own person, reject who I am, what I feel, and surrender every piece of identity and individuality. To be loved by those around me, I have to make peace with never being loved completely. With killing slowly what makes me me, because truly being me is unlovable.

Or, if I make my own path, go my own way, stand my own ground, begin being my own person... Then I will have great moments, experience bright and colourful life moments that make my heart beat, explore places I've never been in, and feelings I've never felt -and will never feel otherwise, which frankly, are the only ones that have ever felt right. But I'll have to make peace with everyone who loves me choosing their sheep path beigely, instead of love, and all because I've chosen to be me.

She's right, isn't she? When everyone goes one direction, and you're the only one who doesn't... Doesn't that mean you're the one wrong?

Maybe I should apologise, maybe I am just a few steps away of all of this starting to feel better. Maybe I just need to try harder.

But it's so hard...

As I curl as a ball on the bed and close my eyes the words of the song fade into the next. "What can I do to make you love me? What can I do to make you care?"

Just as the silence at the end of the song ends with the start of a new one, my phone lights up and I open my eyes. I can't see because they're puffed up, red and welling with tears. It's a notification. My sister has sent a message to our fam group. They've arrived safely to Bethel. My mom immediately replies with happy emojis, saying how proud she is and how she wishes she'd be there. My dad says "that's a great privilege baby, proud of you." I want to die.

Every word of support towards my sister hurts. Each of them means I'm not doing enough. I'm not spiritual enough. Each of them will become a word of disgust if they ever knew what's burning in my heart. Each one of them falls as a hammer, hitting the head of a nail, pinning my need to be loved in the way I want to be loved to a stake, next to Christ, as another wrongdoer. Straight through my heart. Each word of encouragement to my sister hurts as kick in my guts.

And then, when I can't take it anymore, I lose control and scream. I hold my phone and send it in a perfect curved trajectory across the room against the door, smashing it in pieces that seem to fall in slow motion to the ground. But I cannot care. I roll upon myself on top of the bed breathing heavily, hating life, and myself.

And then, I hear it.

Knock, knock. "Hi, anyone there?"