A Novel Love Story

SOMETIMES, A BOOK CAN change your life. It’s hard to explain that to someone who doesn’t read, or who has never felt their heart bend so strongly toward a story that it might just snap in two. Some books are a comfort, some a reprieve, others a vacation, a lesson, a heartbreak.

It wasn’t the end that mattered, but every word leading up to it.

Love was tricking yourself into doing something you didn't want to do, because you loved the person who did. Love was a bunch of small things that added up to bigger things. Love was feeling valued. And accepted. Just the way you were. It was never feeling too much, or not enough, even though often you were both, because Love loved you anyway. Not in spite of it, but because of it.

Sometimes, that’s how it happens. Sometimes your favorite book just hits you out of the blue like a bolt of lightning.

Because love stories were enough. They were safe. They would never fail me.

It’s hard to explain that to someone who doesn’t read, or who has never felt their heart bend so strongly toward a story that it might just snap in two. Some books are a comfort, some a reprieve, others a vacation, a lesson, a heartbreak. I’d met countless stories by the time I read a book that changed my life.

In my next life, I’d like to be a bookstore cat. Sunlight and books and naps.” “I dunno, I think you could do that in this life.

I want a first chapter, and a second and a third—those long chapters, you know, the ones you have to take a break from halfway through. I want all of it, not just the end.” He looked down at my hands, and took them in his, and squeezed them tightly. “And I want it with you.

I love you,” he repeated. “I love the way your mouth always slides into a smile, even when no one’s looking. I love the way you go out of your way for people you’ve barely met. I love how your hair always curls right here, at the nape of your neck”—and he ran his fingers along the side of my neck. “And I love how you make me want to see the world in color, and I love how I feel when I’m with you. And maybe we won’t work out, but maybe we will—and I’ll run across cities, and I’ll show up with boom boxes outside your window, and I’ll meet you at the tops of buildings, and I’ll kiss you in the rain just to remind you that you’re worth every moment.” He bent and kissed my cheeks, and I realized that he had kissed the tears off them. I was crying, and I couldn’t stop.

If you loved something—someone—sometimes you had to let them go. And if they loved you, too, they’d come back. Love—true love—always came back.

Love was a bunch of small things that added up to bigger things. Love was feeling valued. And accepted. Just the way you were. It was never feeling too much, or not enough, even though often you were both, because Love loved you anyway. Not in spite of it, but because of it.

I couldn’t remember the last time someone had kissed me that passionately—savored me, like I was the last sentence in his favorite book.

you’re allowed to be cared for, too. You don’t have to do everything alone.

Love was patient and meticulous and it never ceased to surprise me. It wasn't something that I needed, something that I deserved, that I was worthy of--- love was what I wanted. Anders was who I wanted. For now. For a day. For a week--- for years. A story written in the language of kisses, and read to me in sweet, soft sighs. And though I didn't know the ending, I didn't need to. Because this? This was enough.

Sometimes, a book can change your life.

I'm just tired of sacrificing myself all the time," I replied. "I sort of felt like the Giving Tree, chopping myself smaller and smaller, and I guess I finally realized, if I keep this up, I'd be nothing but a stump in the end.

I didn't need love. I didn't need to fall into it. I didn't need to find it at all. Not again. Never again. Because love stories were enough. They were safe. They would never fail me.

This man was made with tweed and argyle, and sewn together with an Oxford comma.

They were words that tucked me into bed at night when I was alone, they were words that played the soundtrack of my heartbeat, the what-ifs, the second-guesses, the nights I sat alone, and wondered, Why not me? Those books were like arms I fell into, armor that protected me from the world when life was hard.

And he would never stop missing her, because that was what love was in the end-breaking of a piece of of yourself that you'd never get back, There were people who tried to fill that hole with work, and there were people like me who tried to fill it with stories: people filled it with whatever could fit.

Because a romance isn't supposed to be realistic. If it was, every story would end with everyone dying alone in an old folks' home.

because that was what loss was in the end—breaking of a piece off yourself that you’d never get back.

I needed to get lost in a book. More than I needed anything else.

It was a love that I knew wouldn't fail me. It was safe. it was a comfort when I was heartbroken and yearning to feel something good, because I couldn't imagine it on my own.

Love looked like a man who had coffee ready for me in the mornings even though he preferred tea, and remembered exactly how I took it. Love ate my sugary spaghetti, and held an umbrella over my head when it rained, and apologized when he knew he was wrong. Love was inquisitive, and mindful, and—somewhere beneath the grumpy exterior—sweet. Love was tricking yourself into doing something you didn’t want to do, because you loved the person who did.

But you reminded me that things didn’t always have to be good, over and over and over, but they could be great, some days. Perfect even. I spent so long trying to blend into the background, I forgot what this feels like.” My throat tightened. “This?” He motioned between us. “This. When I’m around you,” he added, his tight shoulders unwinding, and turned those minty eyes back to my face to study it—my eyes, my nose, my mouth. Very much my mouth. “I feel like someone again.” My heart thrummed, bright and loud, in my throat. “Like a main character in your own life?” “Or…just someone important in yours,” he muttered, and as a surprise to us both, he bent close, but so did I, like two stars falling into each other’s gravity—

So who could blame me for sinking into books, where I knew the people weren’t real, but they also never disappointed me? I knew everything would work out in the end. I knew happy endings were destined, ever afters fated, and no matter what trials and tribulations and, well, surprise fuckups happened, things would end up okay.

Readers still didn't like Honey and the Heartbreak, but I finally understood it, and like the honey Gemma Shah's bees made, the story coated my soul and kept me warm. Not all love happens at first glance--- sometimes, it takes a reread at the exact right (or wrong) time in your life.