When did you realize you were in love with him?
One.
I was in the aftermath of a broken heart, from a longtime unrequited love. I was in a line—what sort of line it is, is significant—but I was in the back of that line, while he, in front. I remember I was still numb and, I don't know why but, when I looked up and I saw him I thought he was so very handsome. I've noticed it before, in truth; how his skin contrasts against his very fair hair, the way his broken right eye catches the glimpse of light, his scarred lips, and his face slightly pink from acid. He is what society called 'ugly' but sometimes that puzzled me, because I really could see that he possessed a beauty of his own. Yet it had been the first time, in that line, that his charm materialized in my mind. I saw some kind of beauty in his strange appearance, his strange personality, and I fell in love.
Two.
The first time I laid eyes on him I thought he was a sculpture of some Greek God brought to life. His beauty is like a renaissance painting—refined, classic. Even if I say I hadn't fallen for him right from the start, it's true that he had always been in my mind one way or another. And I was always quick to give him my attention whenever he gave me his. It was merely a natural reaction toward an appealing individual; it wasn't until much later that I came to actually love him.
It was a sudden realization. I've never fought so hard for a friend before, and I've never felt so at peace and yet so nervous with one, too. Maybe it was the way he looked at me, that afternoon. All he did was lend an attentive ear to one sad story, and, just like that, even without words or actions, I felt so understood. And he gave me that one look, and he smiled, and my heart was his.
Three.
He was in love with me. He was a day-dreaming, duet-singing romantic and I couldn't find it in my heart to love him back. He was affectionate, beautiful, and obsessive, and he was absolutely irritating. I honestly couldn't stand him. More than that, though, I was scared of breaking his ideals on romance, or, worse, love. Truthfully, I thought he was merely in love with being in love, and even now I'm not so sure. My insecurities will be the end of us, I knew; but I couldn't help it—no one has ever treated me so good, no one has ever looked at me the way he does, no one had ever thought of me as much. All he had to do was sing that damned song and I was under his spell.
Four.
His hair was shoulder-length and curly, and he had the disposition of a fresh spring day. Sometimes I see an image of him from afar, standing calmly under the sun in a cold February morning. Whenever I try to get close, the image disappears, and I have to sulk the whole week at the fact that he went and died and left me in the place of the living. I should have killed him myself with my own teeth. I realized I was in love with him when he fed me grapes. He fed me with his bare hand. I thought that I had never wanted to be so close to another as I did at that moment.
Five.
Suddenly, I found myself swinging throughout the city at night with this man I didn't know. The next time I saw him was at a ball. And then we began seeing each other among the trees. He pushed my whole world into motion, like a stack of dominoes. And, as dominoes do, I fell for him fast, faster, fastest and I never wanted to stop.
Six.
For my whole life, there is nothing but him. I accepted him completely, because he was my betrothed. His selfishness, his capriciousness, his lack of awareness. How he avoided me, ran from me, and chased me out. How he engrossed himself with wonders, how he looked too closely into each little details that he'd forget the whole picture. His silent anger, his strange temper, his existential moods. But he always smiled at me anyway, all while refusing to share any of his thoughts and inner feelings. His smile was enough for me, like wood to the fire. There is no when to my love, but when finally he realized his own, I was the happiest girl to ever breathe.
Seven.
I was too young to love, he should've known that. You can say I misunderstood his smiles, his touches, his words. You can say I misread his behavior. I am also to blame—I was too immersed in my first romance that I was blinded from seeing that he had a million other girls. And yet whenever he comes to me I fall over and over and over again. We both know it, anyway—he loves me, too. But our ridiculous childhood curiosity can never be realized and that was the tragedy of our love.
Eight.
I thought all along that we were just fucking. I got pregnant and I thought I was so stupid, I hated myself. When I told him about it, and about how I didn't want to bring the baby to this world, he looked broken. He was a quiet and calm man who always kept his emotions reserved—it was the first time I ever glimpsed the commotion in his heart that he so kept closely watched. It started out as mild interest…he was foreign to me, different, an unearthly beauty and I just couldn't keep my hands away. His response was hesitant and gentle; it felt so good. I failed to see that he was afraid; I didn't know how I made him feel, I couldn't tell that he was in love with me. I don't know why he hides his emotions—they are so beautiful.