A Novel Love Story

by Ashley Poston

In the rain, I could hear the flick of a page as we imagined moments and scenes and lives never lived, falling in love with the heroines of happily ever afters.

Sometimes, a book can change your life. It’s hard to explain that to someone who doesn’t read, or who has never felt their heart bend so strongly toward a story that it might just snap in two. Some books are a comfort, some a reprieve, others a vacation, a lesson, a heartbreak.

“Heart of my heart, love of my life, daffodil of my eye, how was your day?”

so cute & cheesy lol

“I think you can do whatever you put your mind to, Eileen. You’re terrifying that way.”

“Eileen,” Anders said without looking up from his book, “if you keep undressing me with your eyes, I’m going to catch a cold.”

Because he was right: sometimes people came into your life for brief moments, and changed you forever. I think he was my person.

“Your hands are gentle and cold. You use them a lot, but no one ever holds them to keep them warm.”

“Is that a request?” “A demand.” “Bossy little thing,”

“I feel like someone again.” My heart thrummed, bright and loud, in my throat. “Like a main character in your own life?” “Or…just someone important in yours,” he muttered, and as a surprise to us both, he bent close, but so did I, like two stars falling into each other’s gravity—

I rarely showed my full hand to anyone who wasn’t my best friend; I rarely bared my insecurities. There was a mask everyone had to put on to live in the world and guard their hearts; the only difference was some people were just more public than others.

Because even after the people were gone, there were still stories. There were always stories. Other people took the heart of her books, and kept them close, and nurtured them and grew into something new, because nothing could ever stay in stasis. Nothing ever stopped. Nothing was permanent. Art lived and breathed, like love, like friendship. Life—like works of art—was transformative. It persisted. And through them, so did we.

It wasn’t the end that mattered, but every word leading up to it.

Love was a bunch of small things that added up to bigger things. Love was feeling valued. And accepted. Just the way you were. It was never feeling too much, or not enough, even though often you were both, because Love loved you anyway. Not in spite of it, but because of it.