They asked me why I loved him, and I said: “because he doesn’t remember how to love himself.”
I could have responded with a thousands things.
I love, the moment in between the sadness curled around his mouth and his sincere smile. When he switches from downfall to eighth wonder of the world.
I have a strong relish for the way he makes every single person believe he’s just fine. When in fact he’s slowly falling apart inside. He’s like a book no one has really read, but still discuss.
But when they asked, “but why do you really love him, why do you stay?” I must admit none of these things came to my mind.
It was like all my reasons suddenly bit the dust.
My eyelashes fluttered just a tiny bit too fast. My hand was looking for his underneath the table. He wasn’t there, but the mere thought comforted me.
“Because…” I said. I wanted to find the right answer, if there could ever be one.
I thought of him, my heavenly being exiled from any kind of true happiness. I imagined myself picking up his broken body and putting him back together. I would pick cotton and make him a new pair of wings. I would let him fly back to where he came from, even if that meant I would never see him again. He was my disowned angel. Or the demon I refused to accept.
Love. It had been taken from him. Just like it had been taken from me.
“I love him,” I said, “Because he doesn’t remember how to love himself.”