The time for make-believe is over.

I suppose it’s sappy, trite, predictable, and very “emo” of me but I can’t help whining about how much it hurts to be without her. The summers are always a dry season: no real social happenings, never really busy, just sort of slow and sparse. But this is my last summer with her. After this summer she’s free to fly around the world and fall in love and make mistakes and forget about me. I just want this chance to have her to myself, to be content to sit next to her on her couch with her needy cat sprawled in our laps as we watch Cirque shows, or to watch her dance against the backdrop of the fire as I lie in the grass.

With her half a world away I realized that as much as I would like to replace her with something fleeting and superficial I won’t be able to fill that need for deep connection. I realized I love her, or rather I am in love, although I’m not sure she’s “with” me in this whole love thing.
Seeing her smile makes the world seem just a little easier to take, hearing her laugh puts me at ease. I value her opinion deeply, taking her thoughts and criticisms to heart. I love the thrill of when she challenges my opinions or ideas, picking them apart, cocking an eyebrow and gazing sternly at me as if to say “you can do better than this,” and I can. She makes me want to be better. Gives me reason to write. Pushes me to maintain my passion for life.

She is everything I never knew I wanted, unpredictably bounding into my life. She didn’t turn it upside down; she just rotated it 15 degrees: enough to throw me off balance and make it difficult to understand. And I know I’m awkward. I know I’m not what she wanted. I know I’m not what she expected or predicted when she meticulously planned her life. I know there’s nothing she can do. I just wish she could understand how much she’s done for me and how much I wish I could repay her.

I’ll never forget that the last time I saw my grandfather I forgot to tell him I loved him assuming I would see him later. Two days later I was informed that he passed away of a heart attack during the night. I never forgave myself for letting that opportunity slip through my fingers. Because of that, I spend my life hoping for the best and preparing for the worst. I can’t bear the thought of missing another chance and couldn’t bear it if I did miss that chance.

I can’t stay quiet. I can’t keep this to myself. I can’t pretend I don’t dream about her every night, think about every hour of every day, miss her when I don’t see her, wish she were with me, wish I could hear her voice again, wish I could smell her hair and hold her in my arms. I can’t pretend that I don’t Love her. Not the new fleeting, changing, sugar glass, puppy, pretend, lust version of love, no I mean the kind of love that is simultaneously earth shattering and as delicate as the wings of a humming bird.

I can’t pretend I don’t honestly feel this hollow ache in my breast. I can’t pretend I haven’t cried without her. I can’t pretend she hasn’t changed my life.

I miss you, Clara Bow.