Seventeen

𝖛𝖎𝖎𝖎. it makes her crumble

My sister, Flora, once told me to never hold my breath for anyone. But for Hermione, I held my lungs still, let the cracks spread in between my trachea and I never want to let my heart break, even if it meant I couldn't breathe anymore. I suppose you'd cry when you feel your breath faltering, when the love runs out and when the noise drowns out the breaking, but there's only so much you can do when you're gone.

           I wake up and I'm never truly sure of what I'm holding onto anymore. All I know is that ny hands are coated in blood I think may be mine, or my lover's or my mirror's. This used to be my haven, a soliloquy, a hidden paradise burning in the crevice of my heartless chest. I never used to be this soft, not to anyone, just with her, I think. I knew she was good for me because I swallowed her smile until I wore one, too. She's the prettiest girl I've ever seen, and for once, I wanna be alone with someone.

            I was cruel, a punchline in a love language. I've never been kind to others or myself. Benevolence never came true to me. How could I smile at a party when I felt like an open wound? How could I laugh at a joke when I felt the salt kissing the edges of my eyes with a stinging cry. How could I? How could I? I was taught to be of the night, to be mean and lie, steal, ache— if I could be anyone or anything other than myself, I would— trust me, I did try. I've just grown to become an eldritch, while she became a fairy folklore. I'm a lost place spiralled down to the bottom of your maps. I'm forgotten, searching for my light but I couldn't find one until her but just like every other light, she dies down.

           Everyday I decay. I'm not sure if it's a choice of comfort or inevitability. I say comfort because this is all I've ever known and I'm not sure I don't want to stay the same because I get this feeling whenever I feel good, it'll be the last time.

            But then came her.

            I remember everything before her. Every bittersweet misery hiding beneath my tongue, every pill that carried 'happiness', every blade that kissed my wrists and every whisper that spun itself into a death wish. But now I want to feel her on my tongue, her carrying my happiness and kissing me all over.

            Solaris, my winter dies in the warmth of her tone. A lunar eclipse swimming across the canopy of black and I wish to pluck out every star from the sky and offer it to her, but I'm afraid she won't accept— why would she want stars when she owns a galaxy?

In my life before her, I hated my mother. How she favoured Isabella, how she twisted and bent her sentences so well that it looked you in the eye before it entered your chest. She'd tell me how I was a demon's spawn, God's forbidden child— most times she'd feed me prayers and hope I'd be renewed hours after. You could never discredit her nefariousness. Falling, calling God for his denied help. God has never saved me. I had to save myself. She has never been a morphine dream. She was the pain that ached so hard it left you numb— like dancing on quick sand then questioning how you lost yourself after. Perfect Isabella, lovely Flora, deadly me.

            Hermione was hunched down, staring at the broken painting and I remained silent. She asked me why and I said I don't know— truth is, I did— but I would never tell her why. She had been trying so hard to help me and I repay her with another deadly attempt.

            "What were you doing, Solaris."

             I don't reply.

             "Solaris? What were you trying to do?"

             Nothing.

            "Solaris! Listen to me."

             "What?"

             "What were you doing? Why did you break the painting?"

             "I was trying to get in it, okay?"

             "Why? Again, Solaris?"

             "I wanted to protect you."

              She was silent.

              "From what?"

              "From me."

              "What?"

              "I need to, okay? You won't be safe as long as I'm around."

              "I'd rather be in danger with you than without you, Solaris. Please never do that again."

              She couldn't see that she'd never be in danger with me. I am the danger and I'd never let myself be too close to her. It's a wise choice.

              "You don't understand."

              "Help me to."

               I shake my head.

               I wish for her to read me. To run a finger down my spine, split me open and drink my words, pour my pages, cry over me until my ink smudges across her fingers— I really like her, not the same way I've liked anyone before. I didn't know this feeling or colour existed. I wanted something that felt like home, Strawberry bushes, lavender cologne, dandelion seeds— nothing felt like home except for her.

             She put down the painting and sat beside me, the moon light caresses the right side of her face and she gives me a smile. It's not the kind from laughing too hard, or from pity or from authenticity— no, it was none of that— it was a smile I've never quite seen before and for once, I couldn't tell if she was sad or happy. However, I'd give anything for it to be the latter. She put her head on my shoulder, I gasped and I wish it were more than just her reflex. She lifted her head back up, stared at me again and I leaned in closer.

            Closer. I can feel her breath fanning across my blushing face.

            Even closer, I can hear the whimpers from her mouth.

            Closest. I can feel her mouth hovering above mine.

            Apart.

             "I, uhm— I'm with Ron, Solaris. We're going to Hogsmeade this weekend."

            "Oh."

            "Yeah."

            And just like that, I fall apart.