Once, someone asked me when I realised that I was in love with my best friend.
Was it, perhaps, when she called our kindergarten class bully a coward that was only brave enough to pick on kids smaller than them, then proceeded to call the teacher before he could land another punch to my belly or revisit his policy on not hitting girls.
It could have been when she helped me up and offered me some of her peanut butter sandwiches and some advice on not getting beaten up by those with low enough self-esteem to rely on physical violence to feel better about themselves. For a six-year-old, Ana had a surprising understanding for our world and its complexities. But for all of her chivalrous nobility, rational forethought and natural penchant for justice, she always had some less-than-honourable ideas to get things to go her way.
Or when we couldn't go to the same high school and I went to her house with tears in my eyes. When she slapped me on the head with a textbook and said "Shut up. You got into the best boy's school in the state." She didn't, of course, have to tell me that she got into said school's sister school. The one that was always mentioned in the same sentence with its counterpart. The one that had an even better academic track record than my own. I could see it in the way her eyes sparkled. The school handbook on her desk was a good clue too, though.
Maybe it was one of those many times we studied together after school and on weekends. When she would moan and groan at me about how much she hated Physics and Chemistry (but still never failed a test) while she helped me shred pages and pages of magazines to make into a collage for yet another art project. It was funny how well we got along even though she was the science-y kind that couldn't draw to save her life, and I couldn't tell you what DNA stood for even if you held a gun to my head.
It could have been the first time I gave my heart away and had it handed back to me in a million tiny pieces. When I showed up at your door so tied up in my own emotional whirlpool that I couldn't even tell you what happened, but she guessed anyway. When she wrapped me up in a bear hug and whipped out the ice-cream and horrible TV dramas that her mother hoarded. When she listened to me wax poetic about how the girl whose name I barely even remember now would send me a text good morning and another one good night, with small, intermittent messages about nothing at all, much the same way she did. But rather than hit me across the head (probably with a remote control or TV guide this time, I suppose), she just sat there and sang me a lullaby.
Perhaps it was when the same thing happened to her? That day had started like any other. Ana sent me a text bidding me a good day, along with a quick notation that you were going out on a date with Matthew (Or was it Michael? Marcus?). Not two hours later, my phone screen lit up with her name on it and I knew immediately that something was wrong. The text was brief, unemotional; like she didn't care the tiniest bit. But it was this that told me she probably wanted to break something, or scream at someone, or both. And both she did. Ranting about her then-boyfriend's cowardice for just not showing up to the date and only asking to break up after she called him may not have been the best way to get over it, but it sure succeeded in helping her let off some steam. Tearing up old newspapers, however, definitely wasn't the best thing to do. Even though she woke me up at six a.m. the next day just to go running on a Sunday, I didn't mind. I knew that talking it over wasn't enough; she were never the type to solve things by crying it out. Actions, she said, were always better than words.
So I guess that's why a couple of weeks later, I did something that many have warned me against doing. I asked my best friend out on a date. At first, she looked confused. But then the brightest smile lit up her face, and I knew things were going to go well for us.
I would have liked to start at the beginning, but who can say where it really began? Between one breath and another, I fell in love.
And maybe this will be my downfall. Not knowing really when and why I started loving you, that losing you will be more painful than literally having my heart ripped out of my chest. Or maybe it's the ring snuggled in its velvet box, waiting for me to pull it out.But no matter how unexpected my proposal would have been, it would have been nothing compared to when that speeding car took you away from me.
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This piece was inspired by one of Figment's daily prompts. The original prompt goes like this:
Opening Line
I'd like to start at the beginning, but who can say where it really began? Between one breath and another, I fell in love.
Use this line as inspiration for a short story or poem.
