And maybe that’s why when I walked her back home and left, I looked back.
I looked back to see her one last time.
She was nowhere to be found though. She vanished as abruptly as she had appeared before my eyes like a vision.
I thought of her often after that. I wondered if she managed to keep her passion alive in her. If she managed to keep that fire burning. Something that I couldn’t do. Something that I wasn’t willing to do.
I wondered if I’d ever see her again and then I did.
Eighteen months later.
In the most unlikely of places.
She stood before me on the soccer field, just like the last time, looking like a vision. Only this time she wore a school uniform and a long, thick braid. And for the first time in fourteen years, when I went to sleep that night, after seeing her again, I saw something behind my closed eyes.
A streak of yellow. A flash of Rapunzel hair. Big, beautiful silver eyes.
I’m not going to lie, it fucking terrified me. It sent me into a panic.
So much so that I woke up. I went for a run. And I think I ran for hours that night. And many other nights after that.
In fact that’s what I’ve been doing ever since I saw her again.
I’ve been running. Both literally and figuratively.
Because she scared me, this girl.
Her courage. Her bravery. Her strength.
It scared me that she fights for the things she believes in. That she never ever gives up. That she somehow softens up the rough edges of my life.
That she dreams.
But more than that, I think I’ve been scared of the fact that she makes me dream.
And she makes me dream in a way that for the first time in fourteen years, I want to move. I want to walk. I want to forget that I’m a tree, rooted to a spot, standing still.
For the first time in fourteen years, I simply want to be a man.
A man who takes chances. A man who takes risks. Who steps into the unknown. Who walks on strange roads. Who’s brave enough to make a few wrong turns and strong enough to keep walking until he finds the right path.
For the first time in fourteen years, I want to be a man who dreams.
Because that’s what she does.
She inspires me to dream. Not to mention, she inspires me to be the kind of man that she dreams about.
So this is the story of how I lost my dreams and how a girl named Bronwyn helped me find them once again.
Yours, Conrad who you call thorn and who wishes and hopes and fucking dreams to call you his wallflower.”
My sniffles are the only sound when he’s done.
Which is then drowned out by the loud sounds of his footsteps. As he strides over to me. Like he was waiting, just waiting, for his story to be over so he can come to me.
I was waiting for that too.
For him to come.
For him to touch me.
To cradle my face like he’s doing right now. To kiss my forehead with such affection and reverence like he just did while wiping my tears off.
“Bronwyn, please,” he begs, his voice all rough and thick. “Stop crying, baby. Just stop crying. I’ll do anything, okay? I’ll fucking do anything you tell me to. Just stop crying. Stop crying, Bronwyn.”
But more than that, I think I was waiting to touch him.
So I grab onto his wrists, onto him as I say, hiccupping, “It’s your fault. It’s all your fault. Y-You have done this.”
He presses his palms on my cheeks, tipping my face up and breathing over my wet lips. “I know. I know it’s my fault. And I’m going to make it up to you. I’m –”
I dig my nails in his wrist. “No. I don’t want you to. I hate you. First for hurting me and then making me hurt for you.”
Dropping his forehead on mine, he rasps, “That was not my intention. I didn’t mean –”
“You looked back?” I ask, speaking over him, my teary eyes studying his tight features. “That night. When you dropped me off at home?”
His fingers flex on my cheeks at my question. “Yeah, I did. I looked back.” Then, a moment later. “I think I told myself that I was doing it to make sure that you got inside okay. But I was…”
“You were what?”
He shakes his head slightly. “I just wanted to take another look at you. To make sure that you were real.”
My heart squeezes in my chest. “And I inspire you.”
At this, a fierce look enters his eyes, an emphatic look. “Yes. I know you always say that I’ve inspired you but that’s not true, Bronwyn. It’s never been true. I’m not inspiring, you are. It’s because you can do anything you want, anything that you put your mind to. It’s because every time I look at you, I see colors and I smell roses. It’s because before I met you, I was barely alive. I was a dead man walking. But you managed to raise me from it. You managed to bring me back to life. You cast a spell and my lungs started breathing. My heart started beating. My heart started feeling and at first, it was painful. I thought that I’d explode. That my heart would burst and break into a million pieces with how much you made me feel. But again, somehow, someway, you managed to expand my heart too. You managed to make it bigger, stronger so that I could fit you. So that I could fit all the things you made me feel after fourteen years. So it’s not me, baby. It’s you.”