“
Are you uncertain or just scared to drop your guard? Have you been broken? Are you afraid to show your heart?
And all you never say is that you love me so. All I’ll never know is if you want me. If only I could look into your mind, maybe then I’d find a sign of all I want to hear you say to me.” - All you never say, Birdy
“You know what’s wrong with you, Miss Whoever-You-Are? You’re chicken. You’ve got no guts. You’re afraid to stick out your chin and say, “Okay, life’s a fact, people do fall in love, people do belong to each other, because that’s the only chance anybodjy’s got for real happiness.” You call yourself a free spirit, a “wild thing,” and you’re terrified somebody’s gonna stick you in a cage. Well baby, you’re already in that cage. You built it yourself. And it’s not bounded in the west by Tulip, Texas, or in the east by Somali-land. It’s wherever you go. Because no matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself.” - Paul Varjak in Breakfast at Tiffany’s
It goes something like this:
He comes to me like a thief in the night, a startled yorkie and the rattling of locks rousing me from REM sleep.
I can hear the muffled sounds of things going on in the bathroom: running water, the clink-clank of a belt buckle, the whir of an electric toothbrush. As hard as I try, I am unable to fully reach a coherent state, and though my brain tells my mouth to call out to him, my lips refuse to budge. I am, however, conscious enough to realize that I am splayed across the bed like a starfish, and gather myself to one side.
I force my eyes open and focus on his tall, lean, yet muscular frame coming toward me in the soft glow of a nightlight. I can feel my breath catch in my throat at the sight of him, as well as an awakening in my nether regions. My hand involuntarily slides towards the tingle.
Baby, he whispers into my hair, as he slips into the place where I slept, the sheets still warm.
God, you are beautiful, I manage, in a syrupy voice. His skin is damp and smells like St. Ives.
Nothing more is said. He unwraps me like a present, flinging my t-shirt and panties aside with the excitement of a kid on his birthday. Pulling my sleep heavy limbs around his waist, around his neck, his enthusiasm is no less apparent but tempered now, just enough to effect a slow rhythm.
In the morning, I want to tell him that he has stolen my heart. I want to tell him that he touches me in places his hands can’t reach. I want to tell him that sex with him feels less like fucking and more like making love every day.
And I decide that maybe I will.
Tomorrow.
To Dr. Who
Here’s the deal about falling in love:
When you love someone, you will do anything to keep them safe. You will do anything to make sure their heart is never broken and they’re never hurting. You want to be with them all the time because you can’t get them out of your head. You blush whenever they talk to you.
Now here’s the deal about when you fall in love:
You are so up and down, you feel like a roller coaster sometimes. Somedays and weekends, you just don’t want to see anybody or go anywhere. You don’t want you to text her everyday, because you're probably not up for talking. You don’t like it when you kiss her in public because it’s very awkward for you and everyone around. You might hold her hand, if you’re lucky. You don’t like it when you blush because you hate to feel embarrassed or anything like that. You don’t like it when you pay for everything. You don’t like it when you give her gifts because it makes you feel awkward and in debt to her.
Conclusion: Don’t fall in love.