Its gentle pitter-patter against my bedroom window brings me back to how I used to sneak out of our house just to spend a night with you at the park. You’d be in your usual graphic tee with that snapback worn backwards and a smile across your lips. You’d bring a bag of fries and we’d talk endlessly about random things until the sky shows faint cracks of light and we’d hurriedly head back hoping nobody noticed our little crime.
The big waves by the shore take me back to our first date. You planned it all, a picnic by the beach with all the cutesy blankets you could find. But then it poured buckets and we found ourselves seeking shelter by the rocks near the cliff. We found a little cave and pretended to be the last people on earth, stuck in a deserted island. You took off your jacket and hung it on my shivering shoulders. In that moment, it was just you and me. Just the two of us.
There’s lightning too. You’re it, the one who sends shivers down my spine in a strange but beautiful way. You’d bring me lilies and leave poems on my locker. You’d steal a glimpse of me and I of you in between classes. One day when your band played at the school dance, you asked me to be yours. I said yes, of course.
The howling wind reminds me of our first argument. We just graduated. I decided to attend the local college while you’re off to chase your dreams at a university that’s thousands of miles away. I didn’t want you to go. It was selfish. I know. But you told me that it won’t matter. Distance won’t matter. Not with a love like ours. I believe you. Well, I did.
The harsh bitter breeze takes me back to that day you turned cold. We were two years into college and summer break was rolling in. I was hoping you’d come home but instead you began to drop my calls. You gave me excuses while I ignore the warning signs. The next year you came home but with a new girl to introduce to your friends. You said distance was too much and that time away made us grow apart. You did. I didn’t.
And then there’s the thunder. I used to be so scared but you chased my fears away in a manner you knew best. You taught me that there was nothing to be afraid of and that courage is not a thing we’re born with but a choice. You told me that my heart hammering in my ribcage meant that I was facing something great, something good that it excites me to my bones. You made me know myself better not just by loving me but also by breaking my heart. Now I know that this heart hammers for sadness too. But even if at some point you broke it, you colored the pieces in a way that made me stronger, that made me who I am today.
To the guy I first loved, thank you for showing me affection, for showing me how it feels to love and be loved. But I thank you too for breaking my heart. You’ve made me realize that I’m stronger than I give myself credit for.
image via giphy.com
It poured buckets for an entire week and my imagination skyrocketed. For some reason, I had the urge to gravitate towards my "senti" mix-tape (okay fine my Spotify playlist). That and I just like songs with beautiful lyrics and heartbreak songs tend to have them a lot. So while I was in my element and while the weather provided perfect company, I got lost in my writing bubble yet again.
Writing this piece in first person makes it sound like I'm in an emotional wreck but trust me it's all FICTION. I've experienced heartbreak but not of that kind. Just a little disclaimer there. Haha!
"But Anne how can you write about something you haven't experienced?" says a good friend of mine. Well to be blunt about it... I haven't fallen in love but I write about it yes. A lot actually. You see it's not all romantic. There are other ways to feel and channel love. You just have to be observant, sensitive and sympathetic. Sometimes, you don't have to experience things to be able to write about them. You just need to know how to draw the emotion from something other than yourself.
So, what do you think? What memories or feelings does the rain bring you?
More Short Stories:
ABOUT "OPEN LETTERS"
I make up stories in my head. I'm a dreamer and sometimes perhaps a lunatic. Writing keeps me sane and while I'm no New York Times Best Seller (yet), I'd love to call myself an author. This blog serves as my digital manuscript. I've kept countless poems, stories and whimsical thoughts for years but never got to share them publicly for fear that people would steal them and take the credit. (Which someone already did by the way! If you're planning to do the same then scoot. I can track you down like a bloodhound.) But it would likewise be a pain to keep them for myself. I'd love for people to enjoy them as I did writing them. Open Letters is a compilation of mostly fictional messages dedicated to whoever finds themselves ensnared within the context. — Anne Macachor