How do you know if it’s love? Or like?
I’d never experienced anything like love before. Never fallen in love, or been close enough to someone to feel like I was falling in love.
And it wasn’t like I was falling in love with Marlon…right?
Even on the pages or screens of my favourite rom-com books and movies, love is subjective. It’s all so different.
Emily Bronte describes it as sharing one soul.
Jane Austen often makes it appear like a slow burn, but once ignited, a flame that can never be extinguished.
And my parents, my biggest source of proof that love exists. They have told me that love is treating everyday like it’s both the first and last day with your person.
How would I describe love as someone who has been a spectator all my life?
“Not that I have any experience,” I preface, half sarcastically but nevertheless truthfully, “But when you love someone, I imagine it would be realising that this other human is your person wholeheartedly.”
Soon, the image of my parents, of Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, of Jack and Rose and all these beloved couples peel away, and I’m just picturing Marlon’s face. His eyes. His smile. His curls, and the way his laugh sounds.
“You instantly feel yourself in sync with them, whenever they are near. You are just in tune with them; their worries become your worries, their happiness becomes your happiness. I don’t necessarily believe in the whole ‘you’re my other half’notion, but I do believe that love means two wholes coming together, and moulding into each other,” I pause, and it’s with the memory of Marlon, sunkissed against golden hour, that I say, “You just transform into the best version of yourself, will all its ugly, its beauty, its best and worst parts. Even with all that, you never feel the need to be any less than that. And in a world of billions, you choose them every single time. They’re your person.”
The words pour out of me, and when I stop, I take a shaky breath, afraid I've let myself be too transparent. Too vulnerable. Marlon doesn’t say anything for what feels like hours.
“Your person…” he echoes. “That’s beautiful Garcia. You’ve always had a gorgeous way with words.”
I nod, then remember he can’t see me right now because we are only voice calling, and clear my throat.
“Yeah. I mean, years and years of romance books, remember?” I joke. Then, because I can’t beat the curiosity in me, I ask, “are you asking…because of Christine?”
I brace myself for the answer. There’s just silence, followed by an exhale against the receiver.
“Something like that,” is all Marlon says.
A wave crashes over me, cold and ruthless.
Suddenly I can’t breathe, and I am drowning. I drift away from Marlon, from all our moments together. I descend, until it’s all dark around me, and there’s no hope.
It’d taken 18 years to realise that Marlon is myperson. And now, I’m too late.
Yet, if being with Christine is what would make him happy…
Then that’s all that should matter. Even if it’s not with me.
Silence fills the space between us and it’s so tangible that I begin to count up in my head how long it takes for Marlon to speak again.
I reach seventy when I decide to break the silence, “I want you to be happy, so I’m happy for you.”
My voice has a little rasp, like my throat is parched. Afterward, I tell him that I’m tired and I want to sleep early.
It’s only when the house is quiet, when it’s just my thoughts, that I let the tears flow.
Tears that mourn something that could’ve been real.
For wasting my time with fantasies, and being too late.
Marlon may have been real for me, but maybe it’s Christine who’s real for him.
Thirty One
