It only occurred to me today that love is an addiction. Speaking from experience, I can compare my kind of loving to my nicotine addiction.
The very thought of it did not scare me. How could it? It is so tiny. No, a stick that short is not my ticket to the afterlife, I thought.
A person so pale and warm and freckled and with the saddest brown eyes cannot hurt me. His short but skinny fingers fit snugly with mine so how can it be the cause of my demise?
So I jump. That is the most logical thing to do when you do not know what is better.
I put the thing that is continuously killing millions of people between my chapped lips and I breathe in the smoke. I let that smoke linger in my lungs for a couple of seconds and I exhale with a royal grace and that makes me smile.
I let the brown eyed man through the metaphorical walls I built throughout the years. He flinches ever so slightly when our pinkies touch for a second. That triggers something inside me. That makes me think he is the most fragile person in the planet and he needs me more than I need him.
The days pass and I get used to taking five minute breaks to be alone with my cigarette stick. When I am stressed at work. When I get to the grisly part of a new thriller novel. When there is nothing else to do. I smoke and smoke and smoke.
The brown eyed man became my confidante. My partner in crime. The missing puzzle piece. Every day I can see clearly – he is The One.
I need him more than he needs me.
You would not know what you got yourself into until you are slumped in a chemotherapy lazy boy along with five people you have no intention of getting to know. When the words are said and you are left with nothing but a memory. When you are on your death bed and you regret every single stick you put between your lips. When you are lost and the only thing that can rescue you is a pack of menthols and kiss from a brown eyed man with pale and freckled skin.