You beam your radiant smile in my direction, though I know it’s not for me. I can only smile in return, feeling the painful stir within my lungs.

That’s okay.

You set our time together aside, left to wilt like a flower in the bite of winter, to walk by her side, your hand clasped tightly in hers. Heart aching, still I smile, drinking in the wavering glow of your brilliance. The first flower comes, blossoming where you stood.

That’s okay.

I smile and tell you that I’ll always be there for you. You thank me with that same smile, though its breathtaking radiance has gradually dimmed. You hug me, but it carries the feel of emptiness. There’s a hint of red; it stings, sharp and deep, as it coats my quivering smile.

That’s okay.

The flowers come quickly now; carnations, pure white and in full bloom, delicate petals stained crimson. A symbol of love, but a love left in the cold darkness, forgotten. Concrete floors shimmer in the unnecessary fluorescent light, reflecting deadly crimson. Breathing comes in short puffs as the flowers continue to spill forth, falling off the tip of the very tongue I used to tell lies. Lies to you, and especially to myself.

Carnation after carnation landing in silence. White petals now drip completely with cold crimson. The world spins and dims, and the flame of my heart that held you close begins to die. With the setting of the warm sun now cold, winter finally falls. The time of distant summer radiance has come to an eternal end.

A lone carnation, white as snow, and petals dipped with the final essence of life remains.

That’s okay.

“Do I really love him?” I found myself asking every single day. Love, love, love. How does one truly determine if they love someone? I like caramel ice cream from Ben & Jerry’s. I enjoy smoking cigarettes while drinking cheap alcohol at my friend’s apartment. I love the scent of my English professor’s perfume. I think I like drinking coffee with my mom on early summer mornings while she reads the newspaper delivered by the neighbor’s kid. But that’s not the kind of love I’m contemplating.

Love is about giving yourself fully to another. It’s about finding time to be with them and fighting for any chance to spend even five more precious minutes together. And do they really love you back if they are perpetually preoccupied? Not just every once in a while but quite literally always. A l w a y s. Always somewhere else.

Then the realization sets in: It doesn’t matter. Your love will break you. It can happen at any moment. One blow, and you’re shattered. Two, and you can no longer pick yourself up. Three, and you’re broken so utterly that all you can do is whimper, lying curled in the corner of a room that now feels like a tomb.

Love will inevitably shake you so violently that you’ll loathe yourself and the entire world for an agonizingly long period. It will happen unexpectedly when you least anticipate it. No amount of preparation, inner strength, or supportive network can prevent you from being cast into absolute seclusion, your resolve drained, your fighting spirit vanished.

So why put on this whole circus with vows and promises that you’ll be together “forever”? No, you won’t be. This person who now swears eternal love to you will flee tomorrow to another, to someone whose heart isn’t already broken into pieces.

The harsh truth of love’s existence is that we give every part of ourselves without reservation to those who don’t deserve even a fraction. Afterward, we are broken, our hearts in ruins. And no one will bother mending them. No one. Once broken, it leaves a permanent, unbearable imprint.

You can no longer gaze warmly into someone’s eyes or smile freely upon chance meetings. Your thoughts will batter you mercilessly night after night, and memories will never disappear. They’ll always linger deep inside you, patiently waiting to resurface. Then while sitting in your English History class, that haunting feeling will descend upon you once more as you ask yourself, “Do I really love him?” Love’s haunting question plagues your splintered soul, the shattered fragments leaving you feeling permanently hollow.

The door slammed shut behind him, leaving her ears ringing and an awkward silence in the room. A single lamp was lit on her dresser, just barely illuminating the room. A dull orange glow casting shadows around her figure. She had her head tilted up to stare at the textured ceiling. Her eyes wide and unblinking. The room felt warm, almost hot. The blanket was tugged tightly around her bare body as if to suffocate it. Feelings of exposure and humiliation washed over her. She was still and breathing in shaky, controlled breaths. She looked at the phone next to her, then quickly snatched it and dialed a number. The phone rang once, twice, a third time. A voice came through the phone, tired and groggy.

“Hey sweetheart, is everything—”

As soon as she heard her mother’s voice, she hung up and then hurled her phone across the room. It crunched against the wall and then fell to the floor. She didn’t know why she called her mother when she could have called anyone else. She didn’t want to hear her mother’s tired voice telling her she should have been more careful or reprimanding her about wasting her time on boys. She wanted some comfort, anything to make the pain just a bit more bearable. But the damage was done. It will never fix itself; it will never heal. She curled up into a ball on her bed and put her hands over her face, convulsing. Tears slipping and sliding between her fingertips. The heat in the room reached a crescendo, scorching her and everything around her. After some time, she stopped. She felt a sudden chill take over, causing her skin to get clammy. Then a cold, numbing emptiness bled from her. Consuming from the inside out. Swallowing her whole. Everything around her got darker, and darker, and darker…

***

His truck’s wheels silently crunched against the snow. Snowflakes lazily floated down in clumps and landed on his windshield, only to get swept away by angry wipers. He stared out into the road with a tired intensity. His eyes strained against the gray and white wilderness before him. The headlights only made the whiteness brighter. He thought about calling her, then decided not to. It would only cause more attachment, and he didn’t want it to become a habit. This wasn’t what he wanted, so now he had to play clean up. Why did she have to act like that? Everything seemed fine before and now…

Her distraught face materialized in his mind, and he could hear her voice rattle in his head.

“You’re always so cold towards me, it’s like you don’t even care…”

He didn’t want to think about it. He was tired and just wanted to get home and sleep, to forget this night had ever happened. He turned on the radio, and music filled the warm truck. He huffed an exasperated sigh, thinking about how much time he wasted coming all the way out here to see her. Out here, where it was cold, and empty.

Maeve and Elliot have been friends for years. Scratch that, they’ve been best friends for years. Ever since their paths crossed in the middle school library reading nook during lunch. Flickering flames stuttering on their own. Maeve had been sitting there attempting to read Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows when Elliot shuffled over and paused. Their eyes met and, for an awkward moment, Maeve thought she might be forced out of the sanctuary that was the reading nook. Instead, Elliot asked, Can I sit here too?

Years of comforting companionship, book discussions, and hushed giggles pass in the blink of an eye. Elliot is drawn to the comfort that Maeve quietly offers, whether that is simply linking pinkies when touch feels like scorching fire or melded together with legs lazily strewn across the other’s lap. Maeve craves the security in knowing that she and Elliot could be doing completely opposite activities, not even talking to each other or completely silent, and still call it “spending time together.”

They are twin candles, sat beside one another with wicks ablaze, melting their wax together. It is a warm day in October when Maeve asks, Will you be my girlfriend? Elliot, thinking that the feeling in her heart is romantic, agrees. So, they exist for some time beyond friendship yet the space between them does not change.

Elliot and Maeve decide together that what they are is not romantic, nor entirely platonic. They exist in a state of love that extends beyond the words they know. Jokingly, they quote Emily Bronte, saying to each other Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same, replace “his” with “hers.” They burn brighter together even when they are no longer “together.”

Even when weeks turn to months of inconsistent discussion, they pick up right where they left off. There is no awkward silence, lack of topics, or pressure to be anything other than just as they’ve always been, Maeve and Elliot. They are content with whatever they are, there is nothing that could change this. This is because Maeve and Elliot are best friends and have been for years.

“My name is Jazlyn, and I’ll be your waitress tonight. What drinks can I get started for you both?”

The question hangs in the air briefly, like a glinting piece of dust traveling briskly through a drop of sunlight before vanishing into darkness. My husband answers after a beat, claiming he wants a beer; any kind would do. The waitress then turns her practiced smile and blue eyes to me. I struggle to find the words to say that I only want water. Her name has taken me off guard. Jazlyn. I knew someone named Jazlyn once upon a time. But her eyes had been brown, and this is not, as I thought for a second, that same girl from elementary school. No, that wouldn’t make sense.

Now, the waitress and my husband stare at me with curious, expectant, and slightly annoyed expressions. “Just a water, please.” I smile, though I have been overcome with something like dread. For what, I am unsure.

“Are you okay?” In response, I smile reassuringly at Mike, a name I had only encountered in flitting moments and which meant virtually nothing to me until I met my husband. I respond the way he anticipates. “Of course.”

Jazlyn, the waitress, returns with our drinks and then takes our orders. The rest of the night goes the way I expect it to. After fifteen years of marriage, Mike and I have developed a routine for our Friday dinner dates. First, we order. Then we talk about our respective days and plans for the weekend. Mike is planning to visit his sister in Oregon. I plan to finish reading my mystery novel. The food will arrive shortly after we wrap up discussing our mundane schedules, and we will eat in near silence, broken only by a quip or question from either of us. Mike will pay the check, and we’ll leave. Back at our downtown Seattle apartment, I’ll pull the shades closed to keep the city’s dazzling lights out and crawl into bed. Mike will do some work before following me. But by then, I’ll be lost in unsettling dreams of a small Midwest town, the brown eyes of my best friend no longer visible because her eyelids are closed as she lies on satin, presumably forever.