“Who is she” they ask, “what’s she like” and I watch your smile grow wider.
You sit there for a few seconds, and I just watch you, quietly, nervously, afraid of what might spill out from those beautiful lips.
Trying to find a good word passionated enough to accurately describe me, everyone notices you going speechless.
This worries me. Does he know I’ll be watching? Maybe the reason behind his silence is not to find a word strong enough to express his love but to find a way to call me “just a good person” without hurting my feelings.
You stay frozen for a second too much and your group member snatches the microphone out of your long slick fingers, asking the camera if he should just answer the question instead.
Fortunately for me, the interviews ask for you to answer the question and I wonder if it’s good or bad; would rejection hurt less if it came from someone else? It will hurt,nonetheless.
You steal back the white shining microphone and look in to the camera.
My eyes are filled with tears ready to fall over the edge by this point, my throat thick with worry, anxiety and nervousness.
Just say it.
No no, I’m wishing now, hopelessly hoping you won’t speak. Maybe because I know that the more you drag it out, the longer I can still pretend that you’re not gonna step on me and break my soul into a gazillion pieces. So don’t. Yet you do.
I motionlessly watch you open your mouth and the next thing I know, you’re speaking.
“I saw her 5 months ago, she’s nice, ethical and she touched our sensibility” you begin, and I feel the tears that was covering my sight just a second ago are now running down my cheeks with such elegance, I let let out the shaky breath I hadn’t noticed I was holding from the very beginning of this torturous question.
Everything else becomes blurry and all I hear after that is you saying “she’s my angel”.
Three words. Simple. Basic. Passionated.
Maybe, if I fight enough, work hard enough, my life will be blessed with the mercy of happiness. And eternal love. You.
I love you.