Heartbreak - Anthology

Like We Used To Do

Like We Used To Do

@EPrescott     

**

i love you—in that too dark, too soft, too gentle, too quiet way

i love you—i will say that a thousand times over, even if you will never say it back

i love you—and i wish i had said that at least once to you

▬▬▬

I once heard a great metaphor: comparing someone to blacklight. How the person seems to burn into your retina, the details on their face—their body, their smile, their slow blink, their footsteps—everything blows into eye-aching ultraviolet colours against the black background. And you would reach out and screw your eyes shut, yet the light spots your lids, dots even the blackness within you, and you feel breathless just from that.

You were like that to me. You were my blacklight. You, rolling up your sleeves again even although the night was cold and the car's inside was freezing. You, with your hands on the steering wheel as we sat in the parking lot, key turned backward, letting the diesel exhausted into itself. You, arms around my shoulders, tentative because you want to appear not uncomfortable by the contact but deep down you braced yourself for the push-back that would never come.

I'd always almost let myself say it aloud. Admitting that I love the bents and the curves of your clumsy fingers—moving methodically across surfaces. Admitting that I want to mesmerize the way your wrists flexed as you drove. Admitting that I just want to spend a little more time with you—even though the radio songs were horrible, even though we were awkward next to each other, even though we were not a couple, nor were we best friends.

And I'd always almost let myself squeeze you back a little too tight, too long, always almost let myself tell you that I love your hugs, that I love the cold of your fingertips against my nape, that I love the warmth of your chest against mine, that I love you. That I love you so much and so hard but, like you, I'm afraid of that inevitable push-back. That inevitable freeze of your expression if I ever whisper those three words.

You'd use that voice—low and throaty, not your usual high-pitched one. The tone that was only used when you spoke with your parents in Vietnamese, the tone for things you viewed that was secretive and precious but forbidden—the tone you would use when referring to us, for that was the ordeal between us. Nobody but us knew about us. Nobody but me knew about us.

And I was a coward. I wasn't ready to face the hollow, sinking in my chest because I knew when you use the low and throaty tone that meant that would be the end of us.

So I'd always stop myself on time. Stop myself from saying anything. Stop myself from admitting that I crave into the feeling of your touch. Stop myself from admitting that I want to hear your thoughts clicking in your head and your hoarse, unconscious humming as we coaxed around this town. Stop myself from admitting that I just want to spend a little more time with you—I died a little inside as I watched you reverted back down the road, even though tomorrow we would meet each other again and we would stand close and your hand would be awfully close and I couldn't hold it. Even though tomorrow, the way I smile at you would be different from the way you smile at me.

It's painful, you know. Your images sear black into my brain. Even if I close my eyes, pulling under the water, the blurry shades of your face, your body, your hands, your accented drawl, your ribcage—everything blows into aching ultraviolet colours. Bands of light dance behind my eyelids, dot even the blackness within me, fragile and untouchable, and I feel breathless just from that. Holding myself tight as the blacklight seeped through my skin.