I don’t know since when I’m scared to love. My doll and my teddy bear just sat there in the glass case for years, never getting a stain or a scratch from me playing with them. I never felt the need to hold them, to become attached to them. My childhood’s only two toys quietly watched me sleep my innocent days away.
When I was 10, my parents split up, the first of many separations that followed the years afterwards. My dad cried when he hugged me in his strong arms. The first time I saw tears running down his cheeks. The first time he said he loved me. And I sensed, for the first time, with my naive, childish heart, what it meant to love someone. Love made even a strong man melt. I cried, and pulled my teddy bear to my chest. Suddenly it became a part of my life, no longer sitting quietly, meaninglessly in the glass case anymore. Now, I don’t remember how I myself felt back then. But my dad’s shaking voice and the fluffy bear pressed against my cheek never left my mind.
When Harry told me to go home, part of me died. No, not really. I was merely 15 then, unable to comprehend fully what rejection meant. Only years after, when he disappeared completely from my life, did I realize how it felt to truly care for someone. It’s scary. To love.
When Vincent asked why I didn’t ask him to stay, I was speechless. I didn’t care if he went to a college a mile or 1000 miles away. But what could I tell him? I couldn’t tell him any more lies. It was exhausting. But he wanted reasons, and more, much much more. I couldn’t give him any of that, and it hurt to see me hurt him. I wish I had told him that. Not only to love someone is scary, but to be loved is scary as hell.
My parents were on and off so many times. They stopped loving each other probably even before I was born. They still chose to live together, chose to tolerate each other. They wanted me to be happy. Was I happy? I don’t think so. I couldn’t understand why they did what they did. I told them living in a broken family only made my life hell, but they shook their head and ignored me. Then I met Liti, my ex’s little niece. No, I didn’t actually meet her. I talked to her probably five sentences altogether. Most of the time, I just listened to her talking in indistinctive words with my ex. And I cried, finally understanding why my parents did what they did.
To love at all is to be vulnerable.