Braided Hair (A Short Story)

Braided Hair

I always loved to braid her hair. It was really long, it touched her pale waist. And it had this vibrant, natural red color. I remember that I always loved to run my fingers through her soft curls. She never used any products on her hair and she would always let me mess with it. She didn't care about the way she looked. I don't know if it was just because of her confidence and her restlessness, or because she knew she would always look gorgeous, no matter what... but either way, it was true, she always looked so beautiful. Everything fit perfectly together, the pale skin, the red hair, the big brown eyes with the distinct long brownish lashes, the small nose with a bit of a reddish tint on its tip, the juicy red lips and the freckles. Oh, her freckles. They were everywhere. On her forehead, on her glowy cheeks, on her cute little nose, all over her body... and they were perfect, justi like her.

Whenever I sat beside her and started to play with her hair, she would sing to me. She was aware of how much I adored her singing. And believe me when I say that she had the voice of an angel. Sweet, soft, but at the same time, dynamic. I remember her voice so vividly. Sometimes when I close my eyes, if I focus enough, I can still hear her voice. And I get this feeling that I used to get then. I used to feel as if I was home, as if this was the place where I belonged. So, I never wanted her to stop. I wanted time to freeze in that moment and her to never get tired of singing. Because her voice was magical. It was as if she had cast a spell on me and I didn't even mind it. It was a fact that from the moment the words left her mouth and a melody was created, I was hooked.

Just like I felt whenever I would see her draw. She would usually place a canvas on our front porch. She would look at the green grass and the lively flowers and she would draw them. And they looked so realistic. I was always impressed. I don't know what I loved to look at the most, the drawing itself, or her, casualy dressed, most of the times wearing one of my old flannels, buttoned wrong, in a hurry to not let her inspiration fly away, with her hair tied up into a messy bun and her cheeks red, sunburnt from the minimum exposure to the sun. She looked so cute, so pretty, so relaxed whenever she drew. She always enjoyed it, like a child getting a new toy.

But most of all, I loved her writing. She was a professional writer. She was an artist. A free spirit, a restless one. Constantly looking for adventure and new experiences. And when she would write about something, she would make it seem way too real. It would always feel as if you were in the story, as if you experienced whatever the characters did, whatever she did. Her vocabulary was so sophisticated and her ideas were really original.

I remember that there were times that she struggled. She lacked inspiration. She lacked her fuel. And she couldn't function. Not just as an artist, but as a person in general. She would get grumpy, sad and depressed. I know that sometimes she hated me for keeping her in one place. I wanted to give her what she needed, but I couldn't. I was not like her. I was, and still am, just a normal man. With a boring lifestyle, a routine! I have a nine-to-five job, I have a few friends that I see every now and then, I have to take care of my house and my family. I don't even know when it was the last time she visited her parents or any of her old friends. She was always alone, wandering around the world. And she loved it. It was what made her feel alive.

She was a captive here. A captive of my feelings that were too strong. But you cannot keep a wild thing locked anywhere. You will slowly kill it. And I knew that she was dying here. I understood that she was miserable and that she longed to go out there again.

It has been six months since she left. I know it is a long time, but I cannot forget her. I don't think I will ever forget her. She was my love. My true love. I couldn't bare to see her sad, so I let her go. I want her to be happy. And if this means that she has to be away from me to find her happiness, then so be it. I would gladly suffer in order for her to smile again.

And I know that one day she will come back. For she might be this amazing, independent, wild thing, but I know that she loved me too. She found something new, something she had never felt before. I embraced her with all my love. And even if she sometimes felt as if she was imprisoned, there were other times when she desired the love that I wanted to give her. When she would crawl into my arms and stay there for the whole night. She would stare at the stars with me and talk about her thoughts and the books she wanted to write. And I would listen to her for hours. So, I know that she loved me too. And I know that she still loves me too. And I am a patient person. So, if it is meant to be, if we are destined to be together, she will come back. And I will wait for her to come back...