- First -

..photo finish..

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A picture's worth a thousand words . . .

I ran my finger lightly over the glossy exterior of the photograph. It was a candid shot. We’d been kissing in the other room when Lily had suddenly popped up. Startled, we’d both turned to her and, in the disheveled state that tends to follow heated kisses, she’d snapped a picture. Both of our lips were bright red. His eyes were unfocused, giving him a stupid look, while my eyes and my mouth formed little “oh”s of surprise. His hair was sticking up all over his head, his hands hovering near my head. Having only released it a few seconds before the picture was taken, they hadn’t had the chance to drop completely back to his sides. The picture was mainly of our faces, but you could still our bodies pressed tightly together. My hair looked really frizzy and like it badly needed to be brushed.

A picture’s worth a thousand words . . .

Flushed cheeks. Swollen lips. Messy hair. Proximity. You wouldn’t have to know the picture’s background to be able to tell that it was taken shortly after a make-out session. But that was all. We didn’t look all that guilty—of course, that was from a subjective standpoint—which possibly indicated that we had every right to be kissing. Neither of us looked regretful, either. But we’d literally had approximately two seconds to recover before the picture was taken. Two seconds was hardly enough to portray any emotion other than shock. So if pictures really were worth a thousand words, what words did this particular picture depict?

Pictures were so misrepresentative. They were all smiles. All good times and laughs and congeniality. Who’d have known that, one week later, there would be no “us”? The picture certainly did nothing to predict the sorrowful event.

Bracing myself, I gripped the picture tightly in my hands and tugged in opposite directions.

Riip!

He on one side, and I on the other. The picture still fit together, but it would never be whole again. Tape would not fix anything. It would simply piece together what was already apart. It wouldn’t conjoin the photo into one new picture. There’d still be the jagged gash down the middle, a reminder of the irreversible.

I set the pieces on the ground, at least a foot apart, and contemplated them. Who’d have known? Who’d have ever known? Even Lily hadn’t seen it coming. Who could have? Was it even possible? He was as unpredictable as the wind—at least, now. Before I’d thought I’d understood him so well.

I thought wrong, apparently. Everyone thought wrong. The day before I’d overheard two of my friends discussing how they could see us getting married, despite the years that lay ahead. High school wasn’t a time for marriage.

Did I freak him out? Did I love him too much? Was I clingy? What did I do?

“It’s not you, it’s me,” he’d said, and I’d wanted to pull my hair out in agony. Not that. Not the clichéd phrase. Not the lie. That wasn’t what he’d meant to say. He'd lied to me. He wouldn’t tell me what I had done. “It’s not you, it’s me.” Such false accusations.

I picked up a pair of scissors, frowning at each piece. Each entity. Because that’s what we were now. Two people who weren’t together. “Can we still be friends?” he’d asked, and I’d said no. Not after this. I couldn’t bear to be around him, knowing that he wasn’t mine. That I couldn’t kiss him. That I couldn’t run my fingers through his hair. That I couldn’t relax in his arms and just stay there, because he’d expect me to leave again, like things were okay. Like I hadn’t loved him. Like I still didn’t.

He just didn’t get it. He didn’t understand. I didn’t either, but my misunderstanding was different. “Why not?” he’d asked, frowning, and I’d felt the overwhelming desire to throw my arms around his neck and press my lips to his. But no. I couldn’t. Not anymore.

I picked up his half of the picture and studied it. A deep yearning filled my soul, and I wanted to avert my eyes, but I couldn’t. I was mesmerized by those captivating navy blue eyes, whose quality was not dimmed even in a photo or in the state he was in when the photo was captured. I stared and stared, wondering that maybe, if I stared hard enough, I’d be able to enter his brain at the time and see the thoughts that’d been going through his head.

He gave me no warning. “We need to talk,” he’d said gravely—suddenly—and I’d blanched. Those four words that every girl dreaded. Those four words that never brought about a beginning, always an end. We’d been at school, standing in the hallway. I’d tried to hug him, but he’d pushed me away. His eyebrows were knitted in consternation. I hadn’t seen it coming. No one had. I hadn’t cried immediately. No. I got through the conversation with all my faculties intact, speaking coherently. Until he’d left. Until he’d walked away from me. From my life. And then I’d burst into tears there, in the middle of the hallway, with the world watching, with students passing by, with Lily only a few lockers down.

I tore my eyes from his surprised stare back down to the scissors in my hand. My left hand. He’d loved that I was left-handed. He’d said that it made me special. And I suddenly wished so powerfully that I’d been born right-handed instead. Dropping his half so it fluttered to the floor, I stuffed the scissors onto my right hand, trying to adjust to the foreign feel. My fingers moved back and forth; the scissors opened and closed, but it was only a test. His half was lying on the floor, in tact, covering my half of my face. All you could see of my half was my left eye, rounded in shock, and small sliver of my lips.

Why was I a lefty? Had he only loved me because I was left-handed? No. That wasn’t why. That hadn’t been why. He’d told me once. I’d been upset, and he’d told me why he’d loved me. And I’d grinned. I’d beamed brilliantly. He’d always been able to do that. “Something’s missing,” he’d told me in school on that fateful day, and I’d felt the first prickling of tears against my eyelids. But I wouldn’t cry. I’d refused. I wouldn’t blink if it’d meant that I wouldn’t cry. I’d allowed my eyes to turn red, to sting, to burn, before I’d let the tears spill.

I retrieved his half of the photo off of the floor with my left hand, leaving my own self underneath. I studied the me of a week ago—that happy, oblivious me. She had no idea what would happen in one short week. All she knew was that she’d been caught making out with her boyfriend, and that someone was taking her picture. Did she know what was beginning to form in his mind? Did she have any clue?

No. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he’d said, and I’d reeled backwards in time. I’d thought about everything that had been happening. I’d wondered how long “a while” was. And I’d asked. And he’d shifted uncomfortably and avoided the question. And I’d known that a week ago, these ideas were formulating in his brain. He’d been living a lie for “a while.” He should have followed through “a while” ago. Not just a mere day ago. A mere half a day.

I slid open the scissors and held them threateningly over his picture. Tears sped to my eyes. Memories flashed through my mind. A tear trailed down and dropped onto the photo. It slid off of the glossy surface and crashed onto the floor. Another followed it. And another. And another. The scissors dropped to the floor, forgotten. “Please don’t cry,” he’d implored upon seeing the tears in my eyes, and I’d told him that I wasn’t going to. A lie. I’d lied. I was going to cry. How could I not? How could he tell me not to cry? How could he expect that the words coming out of his mouth would not induce tears? Didn’t he know that I loved him? Didn’t he know what he was doing? Didn’t he know?

Lily had rushed over. She’d offered her shirt sleeve. She’d offered her hair, her backpack, her English paper, anything. But I’d turned her down. I’d denied her, until she’d forced me to utilize the proffered shoulder. She’d taken me home, sat with me in bed, whispered soothing words in my ear. She’d stayed and stayed until late, late at night, or maybe early, early morning, and she’d stayed until her mother called, threatening to ring the police. And she’d stayed a little longer before she’d left. And I’d continued to cry until I’d uncovered the candid shot. Both of us. Together.

“I don’t think we should see each other anymore,” he’d said, and I’d felt my heart shatter.