The outside world flows and melts around the bus windows, sometimes rushing forward from the darkness, sometimes falling away into eternity. It’s always dark these days.

If things aren’t at a hundred percent all the time then they’re not worth continuing.

“I don’t think that’s right.”

“What?”

“Things can’t always be perfect all the time. That’s the whole point. If there weren’t any bad parts then we would never appreciate the beautiful parts. If nothing ever went wrong it would never be completely right. We need to work through things and make it better and hold onto the good things because they’re worth fighting for.”

“Are they?”

“I can’t think of anything worth fighting for more then a moment of perfection. There’s always going to be tears sometimes, we just can’t let that make us feel guilty, it doesn’t make either of us bad people. We’re only guilty if we refuse to fix it. We’re only bad if we hide away and refuse to help along what’s been given to us.”

“But there’s no point in fixing it. I know things aren’t always perfect, in anything, but when it’s worth it you always know that it’s the right thing to do, so it’s ok. This…”

I wish I had met you when we were older. People don’t get married until they’re at least 28. Now I’ll have to wait thirteen years…

One would think that in this situation, where the words stick in my throat like dust and choke me, that I would stumble and stutter and say too few words instead of too many. But they fall out of my mouth before I realize they exist, tumbling between us, dripping and fluttering under the neon lights that go by. I want to grab them back and lock them away where even I can’t hear them. But that would be too easy.

“That’s the thing isn’t it? What do we really know for sure? I mean really, really know. Nothing, or very little at any rate. How can we know what’s right and what’s wrong? We can’t. Maybe there isn’t even a right or wrong, things just happen the way they happen. And all we can do is desperately hope and pray and cling to the belief that this time, this is the right thing to do. That this is real and true and lasting. But we never know. Knowledge is like a religion almost, a blind faith.

I mean, I knew. I knew this was the right thing to do, so I believed you when you lied, I said nothing even though I knew none of it was true anymore. Because I knew this was it, the right thing. But it isn’t is it? Or who knows, maybe it is, and it won’t get the chance.”

“Maybe.”

“You don’t care do you?”

“Of course I care.”

“You’re lying again.” But I know you’re not. I wish I could stop knowing.

Silence.

I will never lie to you.

But are lies still lies if the liar believes them? Either out of habit or out of desperate, blinding hope, the liar will believe them.

And maybe all we have is what we believe, and once we stop believing it’s no longer anything. Let alone the right thing, if it ever was. Maybe it just dies right there, on a high school linoleum floor, dirty and scuffed. Something small and fragile dropped by accident. That’s what this is. But it was real and true for a while, and I suppose that’s what counts.

The bus stops and we get out. The night air closes up around us and we walk in silence. And yet there is still so much to say.

I guess it’s always hard to let go of a perfect thing, however mangled it has gotten. Or maybe that’s the hard part. To hold something precious and know you let it get mangled.

There’ll be other perfect moments though, not the same, but beautiful in their own right. Things will change and we will forget. And that’s the saddest part of it all.

I watch you fade away into the night, you’d been crying when you left. What right do you have to cry when you don’t care?

I love you.

It had been said without hesitation, without thought, because it was natural, it was real and it was true. And I know it. So you have all the right in the world to cry, I suppose. It was your perfect moment as much as mine, and however easier it would be to say you never really cared, that isn’t true.

I was crying when you left as well. I still am. But it’s dark out and if I cry until I vomit up my heart so it can’t hurt anymore, no one will have to watch. The same no one that never told me just how much courage it takes to love someone without restraint or remorse, not caring that eventually we will no longer remember. One day I’ll be glad they didn’t.