The First Time

“All of it?” She asked, turning around to look at him.

“Yeah, all of it.” He answered slowly, making sure she picked out the truth in his voice. Making sure she felt the certainty on his breath.

“Are you sure?”

“I am sure”

“All of them?”

“All of them.”

“Even the broken ones?”

“Yes.”

“What if you hurt yourself? They’re not safe. I don’t know what could happen.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“What if I’m not okay?”

“I’ll hold them for you.”

“What if I forget some of them?”

“Give them to me when you find them.”

“What if I lost some?”

“We can look for them, but we don’t have to. Not if you don’t want to.”

“Some of them might be far away. It could be hard to get to them. You know how the years go by and we hoard and we pile and we consume and we collect and-”

“-I know”, he interrupted.

“You know?”

“I know. I know we keep too many things. I know we keep too many things without knowing we’ve stored them away deep in a pitch black corner. That we don’t do it to keep them but just to know they existed. I know you kept things, things I might never see. Maybe I have too. I think we all have that tiny cupboard full of tiny things that are really the big things. The biggest things.”

“If you know that, why do you want them?”

“Because, I never want to be a tiny thing in your tiny cupboard, pretending not to be the big thing. The biggest thing. I never want to be shoved into the pitch black corner. I will take every tiny thing you have and I will adore it. All of them. Even the broken ones. Even the lost ones. Even the hidden ones. I want all of them.”

“Ok.”

It was the first time someone had asked for it all. For everything. Every thought, every hope, every broken dream, every torn belief. Every atom in her being.

So, she gave him everything, hoping he meant every word he had said.

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The Last String

Today, I cut my last string to you.

A string I always thought could never be cut, ripped, broken, torn. I never thought of it as a string, in fact. Instead it was an iron mast, strong and sturdy, comparable to one that held up bridges or maybe skyscrapers. Thought it to be strong enough to hold thousands of tons of concrete, materials thrown together to play an unquestioned piece of someone’s life. I thought it was an iron mast, or maybe a steel track, guiding the longest of paths without a doubt in a conductor’s mind.

As I am with many things, I was wrong. Today I cut my last string to you. Just like a puppet, I needed that string. Thought I needed it to hold me up, keep me ready for my next move, needed it to be who I was when I was with you: dependent and waiting for you.

I cut it. I fell. I fell the way a glass of water falls when you aren’t paying attention and you put it down and think that it can still make it, it just landed at a weird angle, but it doesn’t: it falls. It splashes, it pours and all you can do is try and grab it and hope you can still catch the rest of what was left in the glass.

I caught the glass and it turns out there’s still some water left inside. Water ready to be drunken when a sturdier hand is its master. Ready, when it won’t be poured out, but drunken with the intention of acknowledgement, not accident.

Today, I cut my last string to you. Now I know it wasn’t an iron mast, it wasn’t the steel tracks trusted for a trusted way home. It was a string, just a simple string. Who knew it was just a flimsy string?