I don’t know how to describe this love. Only that I felt it, as if that young, lovely girl were me and I, her. The pain, the heartache, the longing, aching emptiness for him, knowing he was The One.
Most of my dreams follow suit, and I wake up confused into believing that smitten girl is actually me. That I want such love. That it’s mine, when it really belongs to someone else.
I am a ghost in this machine, a clone birthed and built for other matters — far, far from earthly desire and storybook endings. They’re fiction, every last one.
Call it channeling. Often, I called it true love. Oh, he must be the man of my dreams, because he was literally the man in my dreams.
I never bothered to look at myself. If I had, I would’ve noticed the truth.
I walk into these strangers’ lives, live and breathe their stories, then I walk out/wake up.
I am not that girl, and there is no boy.
The story goes…
Grant loves Holly. They each make a huge impression on the other. Lasting, it turns out. Sweet, sweet love. Fragile at first, as other girls throw themselves at him under every pretense known to Eve. One girl in particular outright lies, almost making defamatory accusations, to keep him from Holly, who is close to giving up and giving in to a life of loneliness. But at the 11th hour, she trusts in divine fate. There, across a semi-crowded cafe — the one all the seniors go to after school — she senses Grant sitting with his friends, talking sports. As she remembers the times they’d sit quietly together goofing around, introducing him to London Fog tea and he, in turn, exposing her to polka music…he looks up from his cup and locks eyes with her, sipping hers. She smiles, lighting him up inside, and they know no force on earth will ever keep them apart. Over the intercom, they both notice with a wry grin, polka music joyfully plays.
I am not Holly, although I felt every word, every glance. Grant exists. He used to play soccer and basketball with my son. He’s in college now, thinking for himself.
I hope this dream comes true for them both. Truly.
Mine has yet to be written, but I’ve a feeling it has nothing to do with fairy tales.
I’m not here to fall in love and be loved in return, like that. A red pill that’s so very hard to take, surrounded by willful love stories, stoked by Hollywood and social media.
But dogs don’t fall in love, either. They may mate is all.
They serve a greater purpose, if the fates allow.
Originally published at https://carolbankswebercoggie.wordpress.com on September 10, 2021.