emma thorn

“We could run away,” he whispers, his voice like a lullaby as she drifts to sleep. “Where would we go?” She says with eyes closed.

“The destination’s not important. We could explore the mountains of Wales with nothing but our backpacks on. Or drink wine atop the Eiffel Tower in Paris. Or learn how to surf in the crystal clear waters of Hawaii.”

And she thought then, perhaps this boy, whose touch was so gentle you’d swear you were a delicate antique, and whose actions said more than words ever could; perhaps this boy was everything she never knew she wanted. What she needed.

She thought about what music he’d be listening to ten years down the road. Will he have seen their favorite band in concert by then? She wondered how he’d kiss in thirty years’ time; if it would be passionate and reckless like it is now or more deliberate, more sure. She wondered about his hair- so dark and thick- how time would begin to show at his roots. Would he mind the grey?

And she wondered who he would love after her. Who he would fall asleep next to every night, with a sweet kiss on the lips, or cheek. She wondered if he would be happy; but mostly, she wondered if he would wonder about her.

“Here you are right next to me, yet I’m missing you already,” She says, her words so honest it stuns him to silence, “Promise you’ll see me in that garden of wildflowers on your hike through the mountains. Promise you’ll taste me in that first sip of wine in Paris, and it will remind you of our first kiss. Promise you’ll feel me in the warmth of the sun of whatever beautiful beach you end up resting on.”

“Not tonight,” his voice stern, yet broken. Here he held a ticking time bomb, a fragile antique that could break at the lightest touch. Yet he never felt safer than when he was holding her in his arms.

And that’s the worst part, isn’t it? Loving something with the power to destroy you.


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