Jigsaw Perfect

I think that the reason I love to read books so much can explain what I have been struggling to put into words. I loved talking to him in person, sat face to face, because even though his mind was messy, it was a lovely maze, filled to the brim with ideas; blossoming flowers of thought that flowed when he talked about what he was working on. He danced around his projects when he was with me; one by one his thoughts unfolded and being with him in the ceremony of his creations upon their completion was a wonder I never took for granted. His face was animated with emotion, he was physically unable to hide how he felt, and he took this in his stride. As much as he tried though, it took someone who could see through the flashy smiles and twinkling eyes to realise he was constantly standing on an ever-thinning rope as he edged closer to teetering off. All of this was masked with pints of alcohol and films. Then he stopped hiding it, he waited to go home so he could forget his day like it was something he wanted to forget.

There was a day. That day in the summer. We both put on the most extravagant of acts. We were honest, neither of us were happy, but we acted and acted until we left each other, later than i had ever been with him. I wanted to cry, tell him it wasn’t fair, run home with him and fix everything that had broken; but I knew I shouldn’t. I wondered if he regreted what he had done, how he had left me. I wondered if I’m all he could think about like he was all I could think about. Since that day, all our memories came soaring back in the same rocket ship I had sent them off in months ago. How jigsaw-perfect we were for each other, how he holds me back when we’re crossing the road even when I wasn’t going to cross, the way he said my name, how he never complained about how much of a burden I could feel like. Soulmates with all intents and purposes of the word. Not in a love-at-first-sight soppy way, but in a way where we both felt invincible together, happier than we had ever been. I never had to explain myself because he already understood, without words, he read my mind.

Now all of that is gone. Both of us are unhappy but unable to say it, it will be too real that way, and both of us feel as though admitting to it won’t help the pain go away. Suffocating but holding on to prove to the other that we are ‘OK’, so they don’t worry, even though every living thing in the world knows that neither of us are that. I wish we were lying in his bed, staring out of the window and humming along to any melody that came to mind, breaking the happy silence and giving it a theme tune. We both wish we could laugh like we used to, squeeze each other’s hands and tell the other it will be ok no matter how teeth grindingly hard we both felt life get. Hearing his heartbeat as he holds me, his deep breaths when he is fast asleep and the happy hums I mimicked to let him know I was still on the other end of the phone.

I didn’t fall for his friends after he left, like he feared I would, because conversations with them were empty and artificial. His friends only spoke to give a reply to your immediate query. It was like a transaction; ideas couldn’t be bounced around and nothing they ever said had a lasting impact on me. They met you in person simply with the motive of seeing someone, they had no passion or love for what they spoke about, only snake eyes and pussycat hisses. Everything they spoke about reeked of hatred and gossip, and it was contagious! Rather than honey, lava spilled out of their mouths, spitting ash, and as much as it was mesmerising it was spiteful and I hated it. However, when he talked, he shared his beautiful mind with me. The words he spoke were meaningful, his passion leaked out of him desperately, like sweet honey overflowing its jar. He tried to make me understand where his mind was leading him, he wanted to take me on a journey with him where the two of us had no one but each other and, even after all that had happened between us, neither of us could get enough of how perfectly we fit together. I get him, I added to what he proposed, I sparked new flames in his already exploding mind. Together we were two halves of separately whole brains, brains that were electric when they come into contact. I wish I could stare at those flares of light in every spare minute I have.

Listening to him talk was like escaping into a book when I was smaller, the noise from the world around me was shut out, as if one person is talking to me about one thing, no other thoughts or emotions were able to interupt. A story would be told that had a start, a finish and a clear plot outline, it was comforting to see that. Even in books with sequels, there is a starting and finishing point. It was comforting because the author's ideas could flow but, in the end, they were happy with the amount they were able to convey to you, the reader. They worked so hard especially to be sure they were happy with the amount you could take away from their mind.

I’ve always loved to read, and so I loved him so much because he mimiced my books, without even realising it. But now he is in my past, just a story to tell, and now I have the power to describe the immense longing I had for him, and how I let go of someone that felt so right.