"Nothing." I shrug innocently, fidgeting with the frills on my skirt. "Just a philosophical debate? The love stories in books are what we live. It's the same with people, no? Some turn into legends only because they died, so love might be the same? Humans, by default, ruin everything anyway."
He doesn't even flinch at the road, just keeps frowning at me, eyes pinned to mine.
"Okay, that's surprisingly dark, coming from you." He focuses back on the road, licks his lips, but his brows stay cinched.
"I didn't mean it like that—"
"Humans don't ruin love. They just have to learn to live through the after," he cuts me off.
"You mean fight for it?"
"Yeah. Fighting for something doesn't make it less valuable—by definition, it makes it more worthy."
He's angry. I probably shouldn't have asked it, but I kind of needed to.
The coastline blurs silver and ocean-black, and for a while neither one of us says anything, but we don't move our hands from each other either.
"My turn," he says finally, his voice a little measured. "Would you rather be deeply loved but misunderstood, or understood perfectly but not loved?"
I think about it for a bit, then smile warmly.
"After meeting your parents? Loved. Deeply loved. Even if misunderstood—that's how you know it's real."
That finally makes him crack a smile. "Good answer."
43
Two hours later, we're on our beach, our little slice of sky and salt. Heads touching, fingers tangled. I'm watching the clouds pass over the canopy of pale blue, toes buried in cool sand, while Ben, predictably, has fallen asleep under an open book.
He made it three pages into Neruda, which he brought along with him, before yawning and muttering something about "real love poems being too complicated," and he passed out.
He's been asleep for about fifteen minutes, lips parted in that quiet surrender men only show when they stop pretending they're fine.
It's strange, seeing him like this—Ben doesn't get tired, even when he's running on an hour of sleep, not even during a week-long hospital strike when his pulse is basically caffeine and adrenaline, but here he is, wrecked.
And I know it's not the work. It's us. All the waiting and pretending we're okay when neither of us is.
He'll never admit it because he thinks holding himself together is the only way we'll stay intact and that my sanity depends on his posture.
That's partly true. But watching him now, I realize he's just as breakable, and it sucks, because I can't help him.
"Do you want me to tell you a line I wrote in my book?" Iwhisper, mostly to the sky. My voice is so light, I almost hope he won't hear it over his heavy breathing. I'm generally shy about sharing my work, but I kind of want him to know this one.
"I wrote it after our first time. On the rooftop."
His breathing stalls instantly. He shifts, slides the book off his face, one eye peeking open, and nods, his face in quiet anticipation.
I turn to him, press my hand on his cheek, and whisper, "What am I but a dying star, waiting for the gravity of your arms, so I can flicker again."
He looks stunned, his eyes flicking left and right.
"Wow," he says finally. "That's really beautiful, baby. More beautiful than anything I could ever write about you."
I manage a little, breathy laugh. "It's not as original as your poems."
"Mine would just be a list," he says. "Your mouth. Your eyes. How cute you look in my T-shirts that somehow migrated to your drawer. The way you say my name when you're—"
"Ben," I cut in, biting back my grin.
