Like a waterfall
Flowing over the aged jagged rocks
It has formed over the years.
The rusty
...
[+]
Hope is the killer that perches in the soul and slowly hacks away at the heart and never stops at all.
I met her while working for the university newspaper. She was an aspiring journalist, and I was a reluctant editor.
"What's your favorite book?" She appeared behind me suddenly one day, a notebook and pen in hand. I had noticed her around the office ,but we have not spoken. I saw her eyes and wondered why.
"The Great Gatsby," I answered on instinct.
"Interesting. Why?" Her tone was pure curiosity without a hint of the judgment that is typical of that question.
I shrugged, suddenly unsure of it all. My heart was beating a little too fast, but surprise could be the cause. I flattened my skirt with my palms, trying to iron out my nerves.
"I've never gotten around to reading it. It's about yearning, isn't it? About wanting something you can't have."
I nodded, "And the American dream".
"Of course", she smiled and scribbled in her notebook. "Thank you." She held out her hand, and I shook it.
Two days later, I edited her article on "books everyone should read at least once". At the bottom of the paragraph on The Great Gatsby, she wrote in pink ink and curly letters: "I read it, it's good. I would love to discuss it with you. Coffee?"
That's how it began. As the seasons shifted slowly, we grew closer. We spent our breaks forgetting to eat because chewing would get in the way of talking. And we would continue our conversations long after we left the office. It felt like we were long-lost friends catching up, like something unknowingly missing, placed back again. When her name appeared on my phone screen, when I saw her at her desk, when she waved to me on campus, my heart lit up.
Soon we would meet outside of work and campus for coffee or a movie (where she would lay her head on my shoulder and my body would become petrified).
Despite this, it took me some time to realize that her smile affected me more than a friend's did. I hinted at these feelings subtly - testing the murky waters that obscure the difference between romantic and platonic affection. How much hope there was when our conversations became flirtatious, causing my early demise more than once. ("We should elope and run away together" was a frequent joke we made). I told my friends, who confirmed my suspicions. Marriage is not often brought up in purely platonic conversations.
Still, I was hesitant. My experience with these kinds of things was limited; perhaps that cheerful augur in my head was wrong in its interpretations. But there was a possibility, and despite my reservations, I am an optimist. I waited a few months until I was sure.
I handed her the envelope, light in my hand in comparison to what it contained. The heart weighs about 250 grams, but mine felt like a heap of lead in my chest. It would be worth it, right? To go all in, to confess that there was more behind my smile than friendly affection. Of course it is, my friends insisted, what is a little risk against the chance of all-encompassing love. All in.
Her face contorted in confusion, but then she smiled as if she knew. She said she'll read it later, and for the rest of the day (eternity), my heart was being pulverised. The next day, she handed me an identical envelope, still feeling heavier than it physically was. There was no clue on her face, at least not in a language I could understand.
"I'll read it later," She only nodded. There was pressure on my chest - an omen.
When I opened it, that heavy thing that is my heart shattered like the finest glass, splintered into infinite pieces like the snow-queen's mirror.
"I'm flattered but I don't feel the same way."
Simple words that sowed wreckage like a cannonball. I came tumbling down. Disbelief and disappointment and something deeper - grief. That ultimate enemy of hope.
Hope is a cruel friend. It sows fields of golden wheat, but then when life sends its plagues and fires, it can only offer faux comfort. It doesn't sing - it's silent like the grave. And it is always there, it returns again and again, clambering those hearty walls with the quiet precision of a well-trained assassin. By the time it is spotted, it is too late. The fields are golden again.
Next time I fall in love, things will go the same way. Those scarred fields will yield their crop. My heart will skip a beat at a smile, my eyes will glimmer at a sweet word. I will water the wheat and tend to it, ignoring the reaper at the edge. Maybe one day, when I push my chips to the centre, when I go all in, hope will come to fruition and I will reach the green light.