"We're heartbreakers," she whispered, "that's what we do. We break people's hearts." And maybe she was right, in retrospect. But me, the brave, entitled young man I was, trusting that the universe would play along and that the stars were destined to align, thought that I could change her, that I could make her love me back.
There was a way about it, something I can't explain. I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, then all at once. It's something that choses you, something that makes her eyes shine and our fingers spark and the air between us so electric. Her red dress. My nervous heartbeat. The humid summer wind against our open palms. "Honey, I'm on fire," she said, "nothing scares me anymore."
You always think it's going to work out, that you're the one to defy the odds. But she was leaving and I was staying and I was hopelessly boring and she was endlessly fascinating. I wanted to know, so badly, so I asked the question and let the words hang where they may, trusting that it was strong enough, that she maybe felt it too.
"Do you love me?"
In her hesitation, I found my answer.
"If people were rain, I was drizzle
and she was a hurricane."