“You’re trying to run away from yourself? No girl. You can’t run anymore. It’s you, yourself, and I. You’re alone.” –Bashout

“Flying Solo”

Fiction. Based on a True Acceptance of Fate.

by Neptune

This journal entry is inspired by true events. Some of the characters, names, businesses, incidents, and certain locations and events have been fictionalized for dramatic purposes. Any similarity to the name, character or history of any person is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

It felt like dying. Or at least how I had always pictured dying to feel like. My skin was both hot and cold, my heart stopped, and all the air was sucked out of me.

The feeling was nostalgic and terrifying at the same time. Overall it was familiar- though whether good or bad I didn’t know. It came and went like passing seasons, here for a while and then gone just as fast. I hated it when it was there, but longed for it when it was gone. Then wondered how I could possibly miss the tight knots in my stomach and the racing of my heart.

They say love makes you crazy, but what of infatuation? The beginning is always the most exciting. Simple glances, coy smiles, a brief brush when walking past each other. Then the simple glances become longing gazes, the coy smiles become grins that light up your whole face. The brief brushes become a gravitational force. The pressure of it forcing you together. You can’t get enough.

Despite your better judgement you find yourself feeding off the feeling- it becomes your lifeforce. And though it drives you nuts, you’re glad to have a reason behind it. Otherwise you’d be alone.

You pretend like it’s a relief after it’s all over. You pretend like you’re happy. But late at night you remember how it felt, the flutter in your chest and for a moment you get lost in it. Deep down you’d give anything to have it all back.

If love makes you crazy, infatuation drives you mad. It brings out the most insecure side of you- and you can’t help but feel like you have to make up the difference. You become louder than you really are. Slowly you become someone you are not until you can hardly recognize yourself anymore.

You take some time to try and find yourself again. It’s tricky in the beginning because you’re so used to being ‘we’ that thinking as ‘you’ feels foreign. Now ‘we like strolling through the park’ becomes ‘I like going for late night drives’. ‘We stay up all night talking’ becomes ‘I finally got enough sleep last night’. ‘We love going out with our friends’ turns into ‘I spent the night in with my girls, watching scary movies and wearing face masks’, or alternatively, ‘Thank goodness I never have to go to another game night with your boys’.

After a while you don’t even have to think about it. Time, as it does, has healed the wound and you haven’t looked back since. Thinking as an individual feels natural. You do what you want to do, you go where you want to go. There is no asking for permission, there are no more compromises.

The sun is out and there’s a gentle breeze that tickles the back of your neck. Closing your eyes you take in a big breath, realizing that you’re you again. You feel so free you could grow wings and join the birds that soar up above you.

As you exhale you open your eyes. Persistent as ever, the butterflies are back. This time they’re a result of amber eyes that you can’t help but get lost in, and hair that you long to run your fingers through.

It wasn’t good or bad; just irresistible, inescapable. A neurotic force that threatened to devour you whole. You let it. Because when you make them smile, you forget about everything else. You wouldn’t have it any other way.