Nothing really prepares you for that moment—that one where you exhale, breathe out that sigh of relief and realize: you've found the one. You've found your one. It's convoluted, right? A melodic dissonance plays in the back of the skull as you're tackled to the ground by a blond guy playing mudball. It seems a little bit crazy, and a whole lot of insane to assume that you know immediately, that you know this is the person you're going to be with for as long as they'll have you. I question myself sometimes—why I asked for his number.
But I know, always have. It's because he was charming, with a smile bright like an Akron sunrise. He was cuter than anyone I'd ever known. And he looked at me like he wanted to get to know me too.
So yeah, nothing prepares you for the moment; but sometimes, it's good to just wing it.
Even more so, nothing prepares you for the moment you can no longer look at your one and see the sunrise—when it's only blinding white light and the urge to run. I know now, why he didn't tell me. Not that I forgive him for that, but I understand. It's all drawn out, right? That is, the pain leading up to a heart shaped note reading "I MISS U," clutched between his fingertips.
I knew, then. I couldn't let go—I'd been so ready, but so unprepared.
And nothing prepares you for the moment you know: you're in love. Nothing quite does it justice—not in my mind—the sad, yet relieved smile on Christopher's face, the finality in his arms around me. He would stay, and I would not run.