ᴜɴᴇᴅɪᴛᴇᴅ ʟᴇᴛᴛᴇʀs ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏʏ ɪ ʟᴏᴠᴇ » ᴄᴏʀʙʏɴ ʙᴇssᴏɴ

I

I realized something once, and its importance knocked the air from my chest.

You were the sun; yes, I'd thought of that so months before. You were happiness and warmth and beauty and danger.

You were the sun.

And I was an astronaut.

I wasn't much before you entered my life, reduced to a working machine without time for feelings or a best friend or a boy to fall in love with.

Then you appeared, in all of your glory, all of your blinding light, and I fell for it. I wanted more, I wanted to see you, feel you, be near you. When you didn't rise, I chased after you because I was naive and I didn't understand the destruction I would bring upon myself when I got too close.

I worked hard and succeeded: I made it to space. I made it to your heart, it some way, shape, or form, evident in the way you called me your best friend. I made it to space, but I still wanted more.

You were the sun. I was an astronaut.

I was your astronaut.

I devoted my attention, my studies, months of my life to you, just to be closer, just to be near.

The force of your pull was ever-present, always drawing me closer. But your warmth was directed elsewhere.

To a separate being, an undiscovered planet, a different astronaut-whatever can represent her.

So now I'm lost in space, floating, free, untethered to anyone or anything.

As a child, the idea of floating aimlessly in space was freedom itself.

Now, without direction or purpose, it is emptiness, grief, sorrow, and the heartbrokenness of being released from orbit of the sun itself.