No one writes stories about peace time. No one comments about the lull of happiness, the daily bliss of being together with someone. The trivial things, cooking a meal together, watching a movie, falling asleep next to each other. It isn’t until it’s snatched away that we feel the gaping hole it leaves.
The relationship was a constant struggle of “if you could be a little less you” and “If I could be a little less me“, like two obtusely misshapen pieces of luggage trying to fit into a specifically finite amount of space. With craned necks and tucked knees we tried so desperately to fit each other. But like luggage we are made out of soft spots and hard surfaces. Some things we can bend and adjust, but other things, our core, our fundamentals, our essence, will simply crack under the strain of change.
I realized she would never be caring and compassionate like all the women who filled my life growing up. I would never be cool and stalwart, able to take weather her fury without retaliation. I would always be a clingy heart with a short fuse and a hair trigger. She would always be a passionate megaphone attached to a fist. These are things we cannot fix, things that should not be fixed, because that would change the very core of who we are.
Try as I might, love alone could not brute force fix us. Relationships are more than just about love. It’s about comparability and timing, and people told me that repeatedly but I could never understand that until now.