If I were Peter Pan, your name would be the happy thought that made me fly. It, or the way you paced the floor like the soles of your two-sizes-too-big leather ankle boots were slaves to gravity. It, or the creases on your face when your eyebrows got all scrunched up the first time you caught me staring. It, or the way your huge eye glasses rested on your pronounced cheekbones.
You got a face of a model and the height of Tinkerbell—and the anomaly never fails to trip the frown on my lips; you got a smile that could turn knees into cream—whipped, I would submit to the sight of your slightly crooked teeth! Truth is, you had me at “what the fuck are you looking at?!”
And I know that’s not how fairy tales start. I, for one, not once, have ever heard of a once-upon- a-time about a girl and a girl. Can you imagine my fear when it occurred to me that our story did not begin like the ones that end in happily ever after? The latter, being the only cliche I never want to stray from; can you picture the crippling anxiety that washed over me when I realized I was in the presence of a kind of trouble fathers never warn their daughters about?
You crashed into me like waves under a full moon at a time I had yet to learn how to swim, but I heard you breathe out and breathe in the same air I was gasping for, and a thought came bursting out of a bubble: “Maybe I am a river. And she is the ocean. And this is not going against the plot at all.”
I remember telling my dad, “Pops, I don’t think I’m going to cry over a boy anytime soon.” I can still recall the sound of his sigh of relief as he drop the tough act—his face lit up to the thought that he would not hear me sob a name on his shoulder, that stream of tears would not fall into his hand and make him clench his fist, that not a boy would piss out of fear of knuckles landing on his cheeks.
I had to bite my tongue to keep from telling him about you, and your piercing eyes, and your sharp wit and how all your other pieces could cut through my soul. To the king, you would have made for a perfect villain. Who knows what he would have done if he knew how much his warrior princess would happily bleed for you?
My head would always get clouded with clots of thoughts of us attached at the hip; the first time I held your hand, I saw the sky play a montage of all the pavements we’d walk on with our fingers locked together; I heard your laughter drown their whispers. The first time we kissed, they looked at us like our lips were made of explosives, so I told you that with enough practice, we could make actual fireworks and be louder than this town that didn’t know how to listen; maybe the collision of our tongues could give birth to a second big bang, and we would open our eyes to a universe where two queens could rule a kingdom.
But then came our story’s midnight; the clock was ticking and I saw you walk towards the door, barefoot, leaving me the shoes only you could fill in; you took a bite out of everyone’s piece of mind and you said there was just something so tempting about a love that wasn’t dubbed as a sin and you started to believe we were wrong and began to doubt if we were right to follow hearts that did not beat right, hearts that danced to a song the heavens did not write and you asked me how could I ever think that my two left feet led me to the right one and … you told me that the only right thing yours could do right was walk away right there and then and I was just a lesson and you had already learned and you left me standing in the middle of a garden of untended promises and … end.
Usually, when something beautiful ends, I just think about how it all began.
Once upon a time.
A girl and a girl.