Vignettes

Waking Up

I wake naturally, a welcome change from the shrill of my alarm I usually jolt up to every other day of the week. The sunlight is harsh in my bedroom despite my blinds still being shut, similar to the way clouds on an overcast day illuminate brightness. My eyes burn slightly behind my closed lids, the bitter aftertaste of last night still lingering on the back of my tongue, in my throat, and settling heavily at the pit of my stomach. It would almost be a terrible way to wake up on a Sunday, what once used to be my least favorite day of the week, but I am suddenly reminded of why I have begun to love Sundays. 

I have not moved a muscle, now overly conscious of the arm slung over my waist, the other wound under my head, a steady, warm breath beating against the nape of my neck. I curl inward out of habit, tucking my ribs back into his chest, relishing the cocoon we have wrapped ourselves in, and I think to myself how much I really love Sundays now. If I hold still enough, I make myself believe that I can feel his heart beat, slowly, against my spine, and I count them in my head, the same way I count the freckles on his cheeks, the same way I count my blessings whenever I am with him. I turn over in his arms, shifting so I am now facing him, and my slight movement has him tightening his embrace around me, still deep in slumber. 

He has the face of something angelic, and though I am not religious anymore, it makes me want to say a prayer. There is peace in the lashes of his closed eyes that brush his cheeks, eyelashes that I tease him for because they are so long, and I can’t help but envy them. His freckles, brought out by the hot summer sun, have not begun to fade yet, and I trace them with my eyes, each mark on his skin a place where I would like to kiss him. I no longer notice the way my stomach churns with the consequences of the night prior, and I am indebted to the sun for illuminating such a masterpiece in my very own bed. Despite all the tomfoolery I got up to last night and the laughs I had with my friends, all I can think about now is my beautiful boy.

Car Ride Home

It was one of those nights where it felt like no one was on the streets, despite it only being 9 PM in the evening. Though by my standards, this was already considerably late for a weeknight, and typically I would already be tucked into bed before this hour, I knew that people’s social lives extended beyond my sleep schedule, and it was oddly quiet on the road. This silence was amplified by the car's quietness, the Uber driver's peculiar choice not to play any music, and although it was only 9 PM, we were exhausted from the long day behind us. We were driving down one of those annoying streets where every other perpendicular road was denoted by a stoplight, and because there was seemingly no other breathing soul out tonight, we were idling in the middle of an empty road.

It was quite dark out, streetlights sparsely littered down the sidewalks, only providing a weak sense of direction, pulsing into the late night. I’m staring at him, because when am I not, sitting one seat over from me in the backseat. He’s looking out the window, though I’m not sure what at because we are the only people alive tonight, and instinctively, I reach over and run my fingers through his hair, resting at the base of his neck. His hair is somehow soft and coarse at the same time, curling over his forehead and his ears. I continue running my fingers through it, my hand stroking his left cheek. He leans his face into my open palm, if on purpose or subconsciously, I’m not sure, but I do know that my heart swells so much I think I might just burst from the adoration I hold in my aching chest.

We are stopped again, and the red from the light floods the inside of the dark car. The passenger seat headrest casts a shadow on his face, but the parts that aren’t obscured gleam red, and I can’t help but marvel at the possibility that someone like this loves me back. I am constantly reminded of his beauty, beauty beyond his physical appearance, the charm of the confines of his mind, the interweavings of his thoughts and ideas. I am still sometimes struck frozen by the fear of vulnerability, the same type of fear that comes in like aftershocks, the way you envisioned quicksand as a child, already knee deep into the mud before you realize you are rapidly sinking. And the more you struggle, the faster you descend. It’s this panic that comes and goes in waves because what a terrifying thing it is to have someone else hold your heart in the palm of their hands, and it’s this fear that I don’t think will ever go away, no matter how many times I find myself in this position. 

The car lurches forward, jerking me out of my lovestruck stupor, but this sudden movement does not seem to bother him, continuing to stare out the window, his cheek still slightly leaning into my hand. I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking about, and I can’t help but selfishly wish that it’s me.

There is no better feeling than that of love, whether it is romantic, platonic, familial, for a hobby, for a passion, for whatever your heart leads you. It is all encompassing that I find myself at a loss for words trying to capture it, trying to articulate the sensation of it in my body. It is an emotion that encompasses the human condition, wars fought on the foundations of love, mountains moved because of it. It is also one of the scariest feelings to experience, the way it forces you to peel back layers of yourself, exposing organs to eyes that were never meant to be cast upon. You can’t escape it, the vulnerability of love, and that’s the beauty of it. It pushes you to the bounds of your emotions, your affection and your anger, your empathy and your grief. But when you do find it, you will do everything in your power to hold onto it, because how unfair it is for our souls to be closer than we can physically be? It is an addictive high that runs through your bloodstream, and at its rawest self, it is so incredibly human. 

Who are you without love? Without admiration? It leads you to the brightest and darkest places. So I sit here, somehow both frozen with fear and the happiest I’ve ever been, and I find its beauty in Sunday mornings, in freckles, in the backseat of the car at 9 PM at night, in stoplights, and in the color red.