The Sun

A short prose about a girl who loved a boy more than she loved herself. He was her Sun.

         She looked at him like he was the Sun, and she knew if she looked too long her eyes would start to burn, but she didn’t care. To her, he was the Sun, but he was also the moon and the planets and every star that littered her night skies, mostly the Sun. She watched him move the same way she watched the path of every meteor, burning its way across the black backdrop of deep space and into her memory, her eyes hooked on the tiny things he did that made her fall for him more and more every day. One day, she knew, she would have to accept that he, like a falling star, was too far out of reach. She would never be able to reach out and touch it, him. She knew he would never hurt her, not on purpose anyway. He never knew how his actions really affected her. It was almost like he was a planet, moving into position, unaware of the havoc it would soon wreak on the souls of every living creature, on her soul. He couldn’t hurt her; he was too good. She loved him more than the stars she studied, more than he could ever understand, and maybe he loved her just as much. Love is such a personal concept, who’s to know? But she had a feeling he didn’t. It was a feeling she couldn’t escape. It felt like it was suffocating her, filling her head with doubt and worry. She wanted to forget him, but that would mean replacing every single second of her day with something new because he was always on her mind.

         Sometimes, she wanted him to be more like the moon, only visible sometimes but always standing in the curtains waiting for its moment. The moon was steady, unchanging, something you could calculate and count on. The Sun flared and found itself covered by clouds sometimes, wrapped up in gloom and despair. Sure, the moon was hidden sometimes too, but it didn’t lose what the Sun did. When the clouds cover the Sun, it’s warmth is stolen away from us. She didn’t want him to take the warmth away, but she understood why he did. She knew why he was sad, but she didn’t want him to be. She knew she would do anything to take his clouds away, to fix it all for him, but it didn’t seem to be her job. Not that it mattered whether or not it was her job, she was going to do it anyway. She was always an overachiever in that way. She wanted to give him everything, and she would. She gave away every bit of her love to the people around her and ran out when it was time to love herself. Most of the time she didn’t mind, but sometimes, when he’d done something to hurt her without really meaning to, she wished she could stop loving him. She wished that her heart would just stop: stop loving or stop beating, she wasn’t sure. She didn’t want to die, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to live either. It was almost like she was scared of both. It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t logical. She wanted to be able to wrap her head around it but she couldn’t. She wanted him to be there for her, but she wasn’t sure he would be. She knew he was busy, that he probably didn’t have time for her. That’s why she wrote it all down; maybe one day he’d read it. Hopefully by the time he did she wasn’t feeling it anymore.