Member-only story
The Boy She Wanted Most
Love is love is love is love.
I can’t tell you when I first fell for her.
She wasn’t exactly my type when I first got to know her. I didn’t understand the sigificance of her multi-colored locks, the pinks and the purples and the reds, when I thought her hair was perfectly fine as it was. I hated that she felt she had to change herself into a different person every time she stepped out the door. I wanted her to be herself — so miraculously herself — no matter what would come her way.
I didn’t mean to reach out to her first. But her words — God, her words unraveled me. I wanted to be inside that brain. There were so many nights I just stared at a screen, relishing every turn of phrase and every spark of prose. I admired her, I really did, long before I ever heard her voice.
And the voice I heard — that song she sent (she remembers the one) — made me so hard that I played it over and over again despite the childlike quality to the song. I appreciated the sentiment, and I appreciated her.
It was easy enough to let her into my darkest musings, my greatest doubts, my unseen turmoil. I didn’t share everything with her, but I knew she could be mine if only I stepped out into the light. I could have her easily with just a few words, a picture of me shirtless, maybe a song sung just for her.
