If She Was Honest, She’d Tell Him

She was more than just an outline of a body.

She was more than a mess of thoughts and a mess of clothes that she sometimes spilled a mess of coffee on.

She was more than a text message awaiting an answer, a phone number to call when he felt like it, when he was bored or when he was lonely or when he wanted sex.

She wanted more than an occasional night here and there (except when she didn’t). And more than a once-a-week if this is going anywhere.

She wanted more than a maybe and a gray area and an undefined.

She was more than sunshine — sometimes she was thunder and lightning and storms and monsoons and rivers of rain collecting in gutters.

She was more than happy-go-lucky. Wait, she never really was happy-go-lucky. She thinks those kinds of people are delusional, anyway.

She has to decide for herself what she is, and what she is not. What she wants, what she does not.

She is more than the triangle silhouette of a dress.

She is more than the dip of her low back, the curve of her ass, the dimple in her cheek, how much — or how little — the V-neck of her t-shirt exposes.

She is more than lips to kiss and a warm body to hold, to use as you please (unless she pleases it, too).

She wants real conversations and honest talk about your day and not the edited version of your big life events.

She wants hand-holding and forehead kisses and someone who can’t wait to wake up beside her in the morning. (She hopes he likes coffee, too.)

She wants laughter in the kitchen and squeezing two bodies into one sleeping bag under stars.

— One day, she wants this. One day.

But right now, she just wants to be herself — here, whole.

She wants to be standing tall and stretching her arms out wide — taking up space. Not just existing, not waiting, not haphazardly patching up heart cracks with false love and comfort.

She wants to be more than the ghost of the man on her arm, or her cell phone screen, or in her room.

She wants to be free.

—

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness.

But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”

C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

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Day No. 18 of my #100DayProject. 100 days of fiction, 100 days of story. Watch the story unfold here, day by day.