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Updated: Jul 3

There’s a certain kind of beauty found in secrets that exists nowhere else. And maybe that’s what drew me to him; I could immediately tell he was full of them. Or maybe it was his boldness, and the way he was so completely unaware of it. Like he thought the rest of the world also had no problem just walking right up to the Queen of England and striking up a conversation. Ok, so maybe I’m not the Queen of England, but that’s beyond the point.

You know how some people just have sparkles in their eyes? Well, his were like that. Like miniature suns allowed to exist as a constant assurance for those who needed it that there was always a light shining somewhere, even in the darkest of nights. You would see his eyes and smile, there was nothing complicated or unsettling about it.

But there was something complicated and unsettling about him, probably the same things that drew me to him. He was so unaware of the rest of world, the way it saw him, the things we thought of him. He didn’t adhere to our conventions. He was different. He was a mess.

None of that mattered when my cheek was tucked in the crook of his neck, my eyelashes brushing his collarbone, another attempt to get as close to him as humanly possible, another attempt to distract myself from the nervous flutters in my stomach that matched those of my eyelashes. And I would be so entranced, listening to his heartbeat, tracing the curves of his arms and hands that I could always hear it when he smiled. There always came a sigh before it. One that to me, signified contentment, wonder, and all the power stored in those little moments that took your breath away. Then I’d smile against his chest, my fingers still dancing across the skin of his arms as I whispered, “I love you.” I could always feel him shiver then as if it ran through both of our spines.

“You’re better off without me.”

He always had this way of ruining the moment, making me feel like the girl who’d climbed onto his motorcycle that first day, desperately searching for something I think can’t name, somehow thinking a troubled boy on a secondhand motorcycle was the answer. Well he wasn’t, and we both knew it.


By

Rose Fall

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