Being happy sometimes terrifies me. It makes me anxious because, as flawed as it is, I believe that life is designed to move in cycles, where every high comes with a low.
He’s sitting in front of me, perfect in every way. I adore every inch, every crease. And I think to myself, how is this real? How am I feeling this way? And more shockingly, why is he gazing back with the exact same emotions, as if he can read my mind?
I keep falling in love with him more every day. I’m completely smitten.
It’s almost too uncomfortable. Why can’t things be bad again? Why can’t I count on sadness to be steady? Being happy means an inevitable sadness will follow. But for now, damn. I might as well fall.
She Was Sea 