Writing Prompt

It was time.  She fought against it for to long.  She had been selfish for too long.  This was her one chance to help.  Her one shot at salvation for her family and everyone else.  Knotting her hair at the base of her neck, she painted on makeup like a war mask.  She slid thin arms into a burgundy jacket and zipped up her suit of armor.  The town was eerily silent as she trudged through the empty streets.  Her family would worry when they found her missing but surely they would thank her when they found out what she was doing.  Tomorrow, people would be passing the news along as gossip in the streets.  It would reach her sister's ear by mid morning and she would inevitably rush home to deposit the gems of information on their mother's ears.  And all the worry would subside.

She tried to convince herself of that scenario as the gleaming mansion came into view.  He was waiting in the window, watching her walk in the moonlight.  All the town thought him mysteriously handsome.  She thought him grotesque.  His square jaw and eternally squinting eyes screamed danger to her.

But here she was, walking up the steps to his home to offer him a compromise.  This had to save them.  That had been his ultimatum hadn't it?  He would protect the town with his army of humanoid soldiers if she trained him.  She knew, of course, there was more to his request then the simple desire to learn.  They way he leered at her made her skin crawl.  But she bolstered her courage and with a deep breath, gave the door one solid thump.  He had no idea how soon his lessons would start.

When the door swung inward to a dimly lit parlor with no one in sight, she was momentarily confused.  Taking a tentative step forward, she reached with her mind for his being; the power coveted by so many.

She couldn't sense him.  She couldn't sense anyone.  The moment she was inside, the door swung shut behind her.  So the myths were true.  His mansion was haunted, or magic, or rigged to look that way at least.

He was behind her, uncomfortably close before she could sense him.  That bothered her.  Before she showed surprise, she turned the tables, grabbing onto his consciousness and twisting hard.  His knees buckled and his tall countenance hit the stone floor.
"What?  Not ready for your first lesson?" she sneered.  He moaned on the floor and writhed in imaginary pain.
"Fight!  Fight back!"  She yelled, inching closer to him with every agonizing second.  He groaned loudly and tried to sit up but she sent a fire down his spine.  No stench of burned cloth floated up.  No smoke of burned skin.  But the man screamed with the pain of a thousand fires.  The familiar twisting in her chest began as she looked down at the tortured soul.

She removed the pain with a breath and leaving him sweating and panting, she walked away.

"Welcome home little tormentor."  He choked.
The comment caught her off guard and made her grimace.  She spit towards his face and stormed up the massive stairwell.

Once on the second floor, she realized she was lost.  Swearing under her breath she scanned the doorways for a sign of her new prison.

"Last door on the left."  a smooth, condescending voice breathed from a few feet away.  He wasn't too close as he had been many times before, and she could hear a touch of fear in his voice.  Ignoring him, she made her way slowly down the hall, coming to a stop at her new door.  It was closed, like all the secret horrors hidden away inside were too distasteful for prying eyes.  Her hand shook as she clasped the doorknob and turned.

This is Me Asking

All I ever wanted was for you to say we we were the same. To say we fit like puzzle pieces. To say we were destiny spun up in a whirlwind of hope and forever. 

All I ever hoped was for you to see me through the same haze of love and adoration through which I saw you. 

We fell apart a thousand times, and I always seemed to be left alone, picking up the broken pieces that sliced open my hands and my heart. 

Now, all the words I wanted reserved for my reverent ears only, have been spilled out to the world. I feel like I'm hanging on a string, perilously close to falling. Again. 

I was right though, about you. All your silence, all your darkness, all the issues running through you like blood in your veins. I was right. 

You sent an open invitation to over a thousand people. An invitation calling them to ask. To say. To tell. To hold you accountable for their confusion. And my fingers are itching to tear you apart. To beg for resolution. To ask for another chance. To demand you explain what you ever felt, if anything, for me. My heart is tearing at the seams, trying to pull itself from the hollow spot in my chest and race to you. But my brain is scrambling backwards, reeling, grappling for control. 

My biggest question, is how do I reconcile this tearing in my chest and aching in my head? How do I ask you all the things I want to know? How do I begin to explain my twisting, ever changing confusion that melds with my affection? 

I don't even know what to ask. I've waited so long for an open door, for a chance to get inside your heart and figure out what you were thinking. Now that it's here, I'm not sure I want to know. The hopeless romantic in me sings that this is fate, and your way of calling me home to your arms. The cynic in me is screaming it's a trap. 

My worst nightmare is that you'll say you never cared. That I was fun to play with but you've graduated to bigger, better toys. My worst nightmare is you not wanting me when all I want is you. 

I saw your darkness before you said it was there. I was willing to help you fight it off, for I have darkness of my own that I'm learning to tame. I say "I was" but I mean "I am". 

I am willing. I am still here. I am always going to want you. I am waiting for you to tell me you want me. I am waiting to hear that you saw this and knew I was speaking of you. I am here, ready, willing  and wanting to be yours. But you have to let me in.

You speak of being closed off, of having trust issues, but you can trust me. You can always trust me. Even if you don't want to. Because there will always be a space for you in my universe. It might orbit farther away and then come home to slam in my chest, but it will never disappear, it will never be filled. 

I'm floating out here, dangling above the world from a worn and weary thread. 

Please tell me it's safe to come down. 

Please tell me I'll find solid ground.

The Boy on The Bus

Across the bus, a young boy caught his eye.  His blue eyes were rimmed with red.  His curly hair sat is a messy mop on top on his head.  He looked utterly hopelessly alone.

He knew that look.

The boy reminded him of the summer when he turned twelve.

He had sat on a bus, much like this one.  Shipped to his distant aunt's home after that wretched accident.  That awful day when reality pulled the rug out from under him and whisked his parents away forever.  He remembered crying for days at a time.  He remembered sitting in the ugly bus seat with burning eyes begging his heart not to break in such a public place.  That was the most he could do back then, beg the feelings not to overwhelm him and curse them when they disobeyed.  His cousins didn't understand why he was always angry.  No one did really.  He was sick of their pitying looks and their meaningless condolences.  It was all words.  Nothing could change what had happened to him.  No amount of sorry was going to fix it.

He had taught himself not to cry that summer.  He managed to take all the rage, confusion, and pain and twist it into his own tool.  The feelings fueled his art, made him successful.  But he'd give it all up if it meant never feeling that pain at all.

He wished he could tell the boy it would be alright, whatever it was that he was fighting to push down.  He wished he could reach across the seat and console him.  But how would that look?

Instead, he gave the tiny girl with the blonde, ringlet curls nestled under his arm an extra dollar and told her to buy some candy to share with the little boy.  His daughter obeyed immediately, excited at the prospective new friend.  When his wife gave him a questioning glance, he sighed and told her it was nothing.

When the girl plopped down next to the boy, he seemed wary.  But her constant chatter was infectious and soon he was easing into conversation.

If only someone had done that for him, the man thought maybe he wouldn't have spent so long feeling alone.

Made of Lace

She had a habit of hiding behind a curtain of golden waves of hair.
It was safe behind the curtain, no one could see her.
No one could see the pale blue of her eyes or try to read the stories stitched on to her heart.

Her voice was gentle, like she was afraid her voice could shatter the air around her.
Her hands were soft;afraid of touching something too hard.
Afraid of breaking someone the way she had been broken.
Afraid of scaring someone off.

Everything about her was fragile, delicate, soft.
Her heart.
Her dreams.
Her words.
Her hopes.
Her mind.

She was like ancient lace; beautiful, intricate, subject to deteriorate under too much friction.

She needed someone who could put her behind glass and keep her safe, but all her life she longed for someone who could unravel all her threads only to weave her into some new material more suited to the roughness of the world.

It Wasn't a Movie

I always wanted a romance worthy of a Nicholas Sparks novel, or a classic movie.
I always wanted Hollywood.
And I thought I got it.

I thought I finally got to be that girl in the classic.
The cliched, predictable love story.
I thought I was the young innocent who fell for the older, guarded, misunderstood.
I thought I was 16 and in love with a dangerous, mysterious guy that I would end up fixing and finding forever with.

It was perfect.
It was love at first sight.
It fell beautifully in line with every great romance story.
It rose and fell in the right ways at the right moments.
Tragedy struck right on cue, when everything was perfect.

I waited four years for the big resolution.
For the happy ending.
For my own happily ever after.

In the end, I got faked out.
Reality flew on set, wrecked the studio, tore my script, crashed the cameras, and blew out the lights.
And I was left with a suitcase full of broken hearts and shattered plans in the harsh sunlight of life.
Life showed me that it wasn't love, it was adoration and infatuation.
And it hurt like hell for a long time until I learned to see it as a lesson and not a tragedy.

So maybe I didn't get to be Belle in The Beauty and The Beast.
I wasn't Molly Ringwald, he wasn't Judd Nelson and we weren't living in The Breakfast Club.
But I also don't have to carry the weight of a "lost love" with me for the rest of my life.

I don't think I'll ever be able to forget his name.
I don't think I'll ever forget how happy I was.
I don't think I'll ever forget how much I cried.
I don't think I'll forget any of it.

But I know what I deserve now, and what I want, and what love doesn't feel like.

Choosing to Write

I think I've vented on this subject before, so if this seems familiar, forgive me.

I don't understand why people continue to tell me to find a "back up career".  And I cannot figure out for the life of me why they always suggest nursing as that back up.  News flash: I hate needles.  And blood.  And pretty much everything dealing with the human body.  And other humans.  And science. Needless to say, nursing is nowhere in my future.  Ever.

The selfish part of me wants to scream "I've written a book people! A real book!  One that is on my shelf that has my name on the cover and my picture on the back and words in the middle that I came up with!"
But I don't want to be that person so I smile and nod and say "maybe" to ever stupid suggestion I hear.

No I don't want to teach.  I'm not called to teach.  I don't have the patience for it or the desire to do it.
Yes, I'm going to major in English.  Yes I think it is a career, and yes I think it's a good idea.

Honestly though, it's no ones business, and I don't get why everyone thinks I need their opinion.

I have prayed over the decision to pursue writing as a career more than anyone knows.  I have had anxiety about how I'm ever going to make a living.  But what I know for sure it that writing brings me peace.  The idea of being a writer, in any capacity, brings me joy.  The idea that I get to do what I love for the rest of my life is exhilarating.

It's not easy.  It's incredibly difficult to find a thread of inspiration and unravel it completely only to spin it back up into one contiguous story that other people want to read.  I'm not just sitting around day dreaming, I'm researching so my facts are right.  I'm sketching and googling and Pinteresting and erasing and rewriting.  I'm waking up at 2 am because some thought that HAS to make it into my manuscript hits me in the head.  I stay up until 3 am because once I grab hold of some trail, I want to write it out as far as possible so I don't lose it.  I waste my entire check on spiral notebooks because I've filled all twenty piled on my desk.  I write until my hands cramp up because my computer is on the fritz and I have six manuscripts that have to be finished anyway.

So to those people who think writing isn't a career: I don't care.  Every time I look back at my life, all these tiny pieces that never made sense before finally fit together and they all come out to one thing; me writing.  When I look at the progress I've made, the things I've accomplished, I know that it is 100% God.  He is behind everything that I do, and I think if I was following the wrong rabbit whole, I wouldn't be nearly this successful.

No one has to like my choices except for me and my savior.  No one gets to determine if I'm where I'm supposed to be but me and Him.  As long as God is guiding me, no one can tell me I'm on the wrong path.

Cobwebs in The Corner

Thin spindles of silk hang in the corners.
Dust clings to them, ignored for years, decades even.
Dim light filters through grimy, broken windows littering the floor with broken shards of light.

Frost hangs in the corners and winter makes it's slow approach.
Warm wind fades to cool breezes that fall to stinging gusts of ice.

A man huddles in the corner, half frozen.  Close to death.  Transfixed by the cobwebs in the corner.

He mutters the same few sentences over, and over, and over once more.
Some would call him crazy.  Homeless.  Sick.  Deranged.
His frail ears wouldn't pick up the sound anyway.

Stronger than steel.  Smaller than thread.  Holding together till the end.
Stronger than steel.  Smaller than thread.  Holding together till the end.

He chants until his voice goes raw.
Until the effort of speaking is too much.
Soon, he is silent, but the words echo in his head.

The cobwebs in the corner catch the dusty light as the door creaks open.
Boots thunder on the soil floor.  Men rush in, hunch over him, call to one another, talk to him.
He stays silent, holding onto life like a spider's web; by a thin, stretching thread.



It is warm when he wakes up.  The light is brighter;whiter than the cottage's ever was before.  Nurses bustle back and forth.  He's too weak to say a word.

Sleep.  Sleep.  Sleep.  Then strength.  Ounce by ounce, it returns to his bones.  His muscles.  His heart.  His soul.

Much later, a woman reaches for the corner of his room, swatting at a tiny, abandoned web.

"No."  He croaks.  The sound startles her and she stops.
"I don't mind them.  They kept me safe."
She eyes him with confusion but backs away from the webs.

"They teach us.  Stronger than steel, smaller than thread, holding together till the end."  His voice is a whisper as she inches to his bedside.

"Just when you think it can bear no more, it proves you wrong, even when it's been forgotten."  He whispers as he falls asleep.

The woman shuffles out, careful not to disturb the man or his cobwebs.

You Were Poison

I didn't want to let you go.  You have to know that.  You have to realize that leaving you was one of the hardest things to do.  You were my last string, my last anchor holding me to my past.  The part of my heart that longs for the familiar screamed at me to keep you close.  But reality told me different.  You are a toxin that I had to be rid of.  Had I stayed in your presence, I surely would have died.

It's different up here.  Floating above the things I know.  Landing for a moment anywhere I please, but never growing my roots deep enough to stay.  It feels a touch like freedom.  It feels a touch lonely.  But mostly, it feels like breath is finally coming back into my lungs.

I had no idea how long you were holding me under water; denying me air.  Denying me life.  You sat the weight of betrayal on my chest and expected me to carry on like nothing had changed.  I failed you there, but I don't mind.  I couldn't live that way anymore.  That's why I left.

I want to be vengeful and hope that me pulling away is killing you half as much as you killed me.  But I know better.  You won't feel the sting until you've made some drastic mistake.  You won't realize I'm gone until you need something and I'm not there to give it.  But right now, in this moment, I doubt you even know I'm gone.

You were poison.  Sucking life from someone else just so you can live yourself.  Call me selfish, whatever you please, but I'd like to live for me for a while.

The Clouds of People

I've always been fascinated by clouds.

They way they float together, becoming one and splitting apart.

Changing each other and creating new forms.

It has occurred to me that people are much the same.

We come together, impacting and changing the lives of each person we come in contact with.

Sometimes we split and become two different things.

Sometimes we softly drift apart.

And sometimes we drift together again after a long time.

It is in that reunion that storms are born.

Thunderstorms of emotion,

hurricanes of repressed feelings,

beautiful lightning storms of something new and brilliant.

We drift and we collide and we tear ourselves apart, each of us hoping to find a storm we want to live inside of forever.

The Things You Don't Know

I spent the first week of July at my favorite place on earth. Pine Springs Baptist Camp. A place that changes lives. A place the ignites the fire of Christ in icy hearts. A place full of miracles. But something one of the girls in my dorm said got me thinking about how we portray our selves and what others see. She made a comment about me being "preppy" and "happy" and "giggly" all of the time. I was immediately defensive. She doesn't know me. She doesn't know my struggles. She doesn't know my heart or my life. So I thought I'd take a moment to share my secrets, the parts of me that I cover up with smiles and giggles. 
This girl, no offense to her, but she has no idea who I am. And honestly, you don't either. So here I am. Here are the ugly truths that hide deep in my soul that no one knows. 

You don't know that one year and ten months ago my best friend in this whole world died unexpectedly and I'm never going to stop hurting. 
You don't know that my heart physically aches every single day. 
You don't know that it's been five years since I've had a best friend.  
You don't know that in the course of two years I lost 6 friends and I still don't understand why. 
You don't know I have severe trust issues. That I ice out anyone who gets remotely close to me because I'm so freaking terrified of getting hurt again. 
You don't know that I have severe anxiety when I step foot outside the house. 
You don't know I've had to develop my own methods to stop myself from having a panic attack as I walk across campus. 
You don't know that I cry almost every single night before I finally run out of tears and pass out, exhausted on my pillows. 
You don't know that all my pillow cases are stained with mascara from my late night sobbing. 
You don't know that I've been single for fours years because someone took my heart and ran it over with a lawn mower when I was 16. 
You don't know that he's still my weakness, after everything he did to me, I've let him break my heart three times and I still miss him. 
People call me a flirt but they doesn't realize that I prefer the company of guys because they don't snicker about me behind my back or make me feel ugly or fat. 
No one in my entire life has heard this all as blatantly as I'm writing it right now. You don't know how proud I am of myself for being able to post this and not be self conscious. 


There are dozens more examples of demons I had behind my smile. But there's a lot of good too. I like looking up, just walking and looking up and feeling so infinitely small in this massive universe. I push past my insecurities because I want to be that happy person with a constant smile. I don't want my issues to win out. I want to control them, not for them to control me. I'm that girl who makes straight A's but takes an extra minute to get the joke you just told. 


Anyway, this girl doesn't know me. She doesn't know any of this. No one does. Well, you do now I guess. And that's insane. Because I don't speak this candidly to people. 

So if you've made it to the end of this post, I guess what I want to say is first of all, thank you for taking a spare moment to read it. And second, you never really know people. Don't assume. Don't call names. Just be a descent human being and be kind. People are always fighting battles you know nothing about. 


With love,
 M. A. Trappe 

Sunshine and Light Bulbs

He was sunshine in the purest form.

All smiles and glowing and brightness pouring from every inch of his skin.

He was radiant.

Glorious.

Warm and inviting like a cloudless day on the water.

Every time she looked at him, she was blinded by his incandescence.

She couldn't stare directly into his face, not the way the knots in her stomach begged her to.

Instead, she glanced around the edges, where it was just bright enough for her to warm up a bit.

She thought she was good at faking it, her own light.

He set a good example that she tried her hardest to emulate.

In her mind, she was just a star, a little farther away, and only a little less bright.

But he could see through her glare.

He did what she couldn't and looked at her dead on.

And to him, she was a light bulb.

When she was on, you could hardly look at her for the brilliance.

But when she was off, all you could see was fragile glass and wires.

He knew if she was handled too roughly, she'd break apart and the glow would die forever.

She wanted so desperately to hide the glass.

But to him, she was beautiful when she was off; all glass and wires and exposed.

Her delicacy was what made her different.

In a world of rocks who despised the light entirely, and flowers who needed it to live, she could create her own.

But the wires made him fearful too, for he knew that if she kept it up too long, she just might burn herself out. 

Social Media Exile

About four days ago, I decided I was sick of the toxic ideals, vocabulary, and morals of pop culture and America in general.  I'm sick of seeing the words "bae" and "goals" and "selfie".  I'm sick of hearing about how "thigh gaps" are life goals for different people.  I'm sick of hearing about the Kardashians and Bruce/Caitlin and how make up can change your life.  I'm sick of hearing about how pastel hair is the new "thing".

I needed a break from main stream America and Pop Culture and trends and fads.  I needed to take a moment and come back to what I believe, what I know is right, and what is important to me.
So, I signed out of Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, Kik, and Twitter (all the social media platforms I use) and I turned off the notifications for all five.  Yes, you read that right.  I turned off the notifications.  And the result was shocking.

What did I find? you might ask.  Well, here it is.

Day 1 was torture.  I checked my phone every ten minutes, on the dot, like an addict going through withdrawals in desperate need for their drug of choice.  I couldn't focus, I couldn't sit still.  I was restless, I was bored, I was irritable.  It was terrifying.  Technology and Social Media have weaseled themselves into our lives, convincing us we need the newest, biggest, touch screen.  Or that we NEED to know who wore it best, or what tragic fashion mistake Kim Kardashian made or who the latest celebrities to get divorced are.  We need it like we need air in our lungs.  We HAVE to know what that cute guy from high school is up to or what that crazy girl turned out to be or we'll just die.
But guess what: I'm still living.  I'm right here sucking in oxygen like I have every other day of my life.  And I'm not dead.

Day 2 was a whole new world.  I checked my phone every few hours, but it wasn't nearly as heartbreaking to remember I logged out of everything.  I could focus on chores and laundry and doing the dishes.  I found things that needed to be done and GET THIS: I actually had a good time.

By day 3, my IPod was missing almost 24/7 and I didn't really care where it was.  I only picked up my phone the two times it rang.  I got to spend an entire day enjoying the REAL company of my family, not obsessed with the virtual and insignificant lives of people I will never ever meet.

Today is day 4 and the benefits are really hitting me hard.  Not only is it perfectly okay not being tied to Facebook, or Instagram, but my mood has improved.  I'm not looking at photo shopped or even real pictures of girls who are naturally thin and thinking "man I really need to work out" or looking at filtered versions of selfies that took seventy takes to get perfect and thinking "man I'm never going to be as pretty as her".  I'm not looking at other peoples stomachs and thinking "I wish mine was that small" or looking at other people's relationships and thinking "gosh I'm so alone".
I've stopped comparing myself to everyone else.  I can look in the mirror, or into my heart, and think "hey, God made me beautiful and smart and talented and funny and outgoing and I rock it."  I think "man I'm blessed to have this life."

Without the constant shove of media trying to tell me who I should act like or what I should look like or what "pretty" is, I can find myself and become confident in the things God gave me.

I guess the point I'm trying to make in all of this, is that we don't realize how attached we are to our Faceboook profiles, or how many likes we get on Instagram or how many Snapchat friends we have.  We don't see the negative effect that Social Media is having on our emotions and our mentalities.  It is only when we chose to take two steps back that the real world and the reality of the nature of mass media can hit us square in the chest.  And folks, that isn't a good feeling.  It's scary, and unnerving.  It's like someone's had a hold on your mind and your heart that you never even knew about.

So I challenge you to become a Social Media Exile, try for just a week.  Sign out of all Social Media platforms; Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat, Twitter, Periscope, Vine, Tumblr.  Sign out, and don't sign back in for an entire week.  Fight through the urge to check your notifications, turn them off completely.  If someone really needs you, they'll call or text or email.  You'll be amazed at the results and the mindset you find yourself in.  If you don't believe me, just try it,

Rain and Proverbs and Noah Oh My!

Could there be any more rain in Texas?
I feel like all we've done this summer is drown in wave after wave of pouring rain.
First, it was just a little rain.  And then we got this whole Tropical Storm Bill thing going on.  I'm so sick of rain, I can't stand it anymore.  The sky changes in an instant from blue and gorgeous with fluffy, cotton ball clouds, to entirely dismal and grey, dumping tons of water all over creation.

Poor Noah.  If we're sick of rain, can you imagine forty days and forty nights of it?  Enough to flood the entire world?  I wouldn't have done well on his ark.
But every time I think there's no end to the rain in sight, I manage to see a rainbow.  Like God is promising me, it's going to stop eventually.  He always keeps his promises, and I guess that's what's keeping me sane in this downpour.  Noah had enough faith to build an ark.  He had enough faith to trust God when he said it was going to rain enough to cover the entire earth.  All of Noah's neighbors thought he was crazy to do what he was doing and to listen to God.  But he never slowed down.  He did as God lead him, no matter how crazy it sounded.

In the wake of all this rain, and thinking of Noah, I'm reminded of what my own Christian walk should look like.  If God leads me somewhere, or to do something, I should go, no questions asked.  Even if my family, or my friends, or my neighbors, call me crazy and think I've lost my mind.  God knows what's going on.  He knows the future and the past and the present, and he wants the best for us.  So even when things seem crazy, even when we have those moments where we're asking "God, how is this even going to work?" we should do as he asks.

So as I listen to the thunder, and watch rain coat my window, and hear my dog's nails clack as he paces the floor outside my room, I want to encourage all of you to think like Noah.  To be faithful, no matter the circumstance,  to trust God even when our human minds can't comprehend the process.

Proverbs 3:5-6 tell us "Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thineown understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths."
We may not always understand what's happening, or what we feel He's leading us to, but if we trust him and put our faith in him, he will lead us.

Deafening Rain

The rain fell in deafening sheets as she stared out the window.  Such depressing weather.  How fitting.  It was like the sky was mimicking the turbulent emotions in her chest.

It was one of those days where she was dying to do something too tired to actually find pleasure in doing anything at all.  She had opened and closed Facebook six times.  Why she thought something life changing would have happened in the last ten minutes, she didn't know.  But she looked anyway.  Deep down, she was hoping the little green light would pop up next to his name.
Not that she would initiate a conversation.  It was just comforting to know they were doing the same thing when they were so far away from each other.  Well, comforting and simultaneously tremendously horrid.
With a sigh, she flopped back on her pillows and opened the little blue app again.  Nothing had changed.  All of her friends were either happily married, engaged, or pregnant.  People she used to know seemed like strangers.  His light was still off.  And she was still alone.

She signed off again and let the phone fall on her chest as she stared into the darkness.  She hadn't felt like turning the light on when she had closed the door behind her.  The cool darkness was comforting.  She felt like she blended in.  Like she belonged here, without light, without people.  That isn't fair.  she thought.  Why should I have to be alone?  Surrounded by people who have someone. 
That was the way her life seemed to go.  She was always just shy of being enough for someone.  People came together and fell apart all around her, but she never got the choice.  Someone might get close enough to brush her cheek, but they never stayed long enough for it to matter.

She tried to tell herself there was a purpose behind it.  That she was only going to be alone for a little while longer, and then her prince charming would come.  Maybe he got stuck in traffic.  But a month had turned into a year which somehow had flown into four.  Four years.  She'd had one date, a disaster.  She's been on the verge of something once or twice, but it fell through both times.  But it was enough to make it hurt.  It was enough to make her second guess herself.  It was enough to make her wonder if she was the problem.  Maybe she was too tall, too sarcastic.  Maybe she wasn't pretty enough, or smart enough, or funny enough.

But every negative thought shied away when she thought of him.  So maybe they hadn't been a "thing", and maybe they hadn't even been on the verge of a "thing", but they had something... right?  He hadn't shied away.  He had bowed up.  He fought back and made her laugh and made her feel like she mattered.  He gave her back years of confidence that had been stripped away.  So what happened?  He was there, inches from her one day, and the next he literally walked away without a word.

She liked to tell herself he had to, because goodbye would have hurt too much.  But her head knew better than her heart wanted to believe.  As she replayed their conversations over in her head, she pulled her knees up to her aching chest.  He would know what to say right now.  She thought as a tear slipped onto her jeans,  He always did.  And somehow, she let him get away.

The Life. The Guardian Angel. The Memory.

He was tall, well dressed, handsome.

He was witty, smart, funny.

He could talk to anyone, about anything, at any time.

 

She was tall...somewhat. She prayed she dressed appropriately.

She was witty as well, but awkward and nervous.

She hated strangers, and conversation, and especially hated conversation with strangers.

He came along and swept her up in his sarcastic, swaggering world.
Something in him was toxic to her walls, and they fell like silken curtains and gathered around her feet.  The destruction was a beautiful, glimmering, hopeful sight to see.  He put her insecurities down for a deep sleep, and banished her fears with a smile.  He made from this awkward slump of a girl, a gliding, beautiful, goddess, simply keen on being herself.

It was amazing, the transformation he set ablaze in her.  Insecurity faded to carelessness and then blazed in a flame of confidence.  Her heart shrank away in fear, and then grew and grew, parts melting that had previously been iced over.  In the mirror, she no longer saw tawny, tangled locks but strands of woven gold.  Suddenly, her laugh was signature, and unique, not embarrassing as before.

Every sideways grin, every quiet compliment, every silent look helped shatter her fears and blow them away.  He was a hurricane of life and renewal.  He washed away the ashen dust of her past and planted seeds of life in her chest.  Even with distance, he was a gentle sprinkle of faith when she needed it most.  And just like that, with a handful of moments gathered up and stuck in her back pocket, she was new.  She ran with life, instead of hiding, and every step she took, she credited to him.
He was everything to her;
The rain in the drought.
The sun in the storm.
The rainbow in the dusty skies.
The life after death.
The guardian angel who saved her then.
And he would always be the memory she never got tired of replaying in her head.