I hate when I see pictures of a fat guy and a skinny girl or a fat couple or a skinny girl with a fat guy and people comment saying, “you don’t know their story. Haters gonna hate. This is true love.”
Well, that’s great, you know. I’m not judging. But why do they always have to say things like… this is true love… oh yeah? Is it? Is it really? No way.
Oh wow, you’re both fat, true love.
Oh, skinny couple, true love.
Oh, one of you are fat, huh? True love.
Why do pictures like this even go around the net? I mean, aren’t they just normal people loving each other? Everyone makes such a big deal out of these things and yeah, they’re not bad things, but why not… I don’t know… treat them like just any other couple?
I’m guessing I need to be a certain body type to have the Internet declare my relationships, true love.
At the common room an announcement was made that whoever wanted to watch an open surgery was welcome to view it. I ran of course, seated in the front row, excited and eager.
The first operation took exactly two hours but it didn’t feel that long. We were asked to step out, for the next surgery would be in another three. I ran back to the common room asking if Boy with Golden Hair would accompany me to watch the next one. His eyes fixed on the TV with a controller in his hands and fingers pressing buttons as if they had a mind of their own nodded to my direction. I rolled my eyes and put my hands to my hips.
Boy with Golden Hair after noticing I hadn’t said a word looked at me and decided to give me a hug. I told him of the red blood and the sharp instruments and the steady hands the Doctors had. He wasn’t that interested. We walked out and I showed him the room where all the sharp, metallic, operating utensils were.
He asked if we could go out and get some fresh air. I thought this was wise and so we headed out hand in hand. The sky was clear blue and the sun shone. There were a number of people kicking around a soccer ball and to the right were a group of boys shooting hoops. Boy with Golden Hair introduced me to a couple of his friends and I shook their hands like a proper lady would.
Boy with Golden Hair decided he wanted to play. As I sat on the grass, his friend sat next to me. He bobbed his head to the direction of Boy with Golden Hair and asked me if I loved him. I smiled, nodding, yes I do love him.
Then what are you doing to him, friend said. I was confused, what did he mean?
He would do anything for you, friend continued, but look at you two, very different people, let him go and let him do what he wants to do. Stop trying to shape him into someone he’s not.
I looked at Boy with Golden Hair who waved at us from afar and I smiled back. Unsure. Puzzled.
I thanked the friend and decided I wanted to go back inside. Boy with Golden Hair ran after me asking me what was wrong, I told him a storm was coming and I didn’t want to be out when it arrived. He looked at the clear sky confused, but walked in with me.
From that day on, I stopped inviting Boy with Golden Hair to anything. I did what he did and let him do what he wanted. To this day I feel like an anchor weighing him down. It hurts knowing you’re the reason this person isn’t out there. It hurts even more thinking that when I let him go, he’ll be relieved more than appreciative.
Happy endings are for stories that haven’t finished yet.
I’d like to know what makes you, you. What makes you love him and what makes you love her. What makes you love me?
I want to know why you’re sad and why when you’re childish, you giggle and laugh and stick your tongue out like that. What makes you angry? Why don’t you like showing me?
I want to know what’s in your heart. Do you really love him? Love her? Do you really even love me? Am I just someone you’ve come across and think “that is that” and nothing more? Do you like how I give you a bag of my heart and soul and a glass of my emotions for you to take home?
I want to know why you bottle the sand up; why you can’t just pour them out. Tell me how you really feel. I won’t share your sand. I don’t ever share anyone’s sand. Your dirt is your dirt but it doesn’t have to be your hurt. Let’s build a sand castle out of this mess.
I wonder how long that line of patience you have with me is. I find it hard to believe you like being around me. Do you really?
How about nights? Do you cry yourself to sleep thinking how he betrayed you? How she left you just like that? How you thought you were their world when, in fact, they were actually yours and you were only homework? Something that just didn’t matter?
Tell me because I actually do want to know what makes you, you. Not because of the information I’ll get but because I love listening to stories. You can make me fall in love with you the way Othello made Desdemona fall in love with him.
True love isn’t easy, it must be fought for.
How do you look at the girl you love and tell her it’s time to walk away?
