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When someone interested me, there was no going back. For them, I mean. I was untouchable, unattainable, charismatic and charming. I held my pride like a sword. This man would be mine, whether he knew it or not.
Of course he did. I was born to satiate. I tasted like fucking vanilla cream pudding.
In a world short of love, I had to be wanted. I was wanted. I felt wanted. Never loved, no. But I was wanted.
Was blue a happy colour? I could no longer tell. He was sick, but he was out of his misery. A bittersweet dichotomy of some sorts.
I chose Blu. A part of me died that day. Her name was Beatrice Louise Henderson.
Maybe I fell in love with the potential of people, not who they really were.
Pain became happiness. Happiness became pain. Pain became comfort, and that comfort was bliss.
You value love over everything, even in the absence of it.” Even in the absence of it.
Four weeks later, The Academy scout watched me play the worst game of my life. And one month later, my dreams of pursing a career in soccer were crushed indefinitely. All because I fell in love.
“Good enough to fuck,” I stated. “Not good enough to love,” I accepted.
Every line, every swirl, every sharp edge didn’t touch the red dot. This hue of red was an impenetrable forcefield, protecting him from the outside world. The outside pain. In that moment, all I could do was pray and wonder . . . Will I ever find a hue of Blu?
“Must be nice.” That line. That one line. Holy fuck, how could I have been so blind?
Fat chance. I knew an eating disorder when I saw one.
I wanted to be an object of desire. I craved it. I needed to know that I was worthy of love.
That was also the moment I realized how little of myself I had left, when I was trying to please everyone else.
“I feel like I’m waiting for someone to understand me, and no one ever does.”
He wasn’t mine and yet I claimed him in my head. The thought of him being out with a bevy of girls sent nails down my oesophagus . But again, he wasn’t mine.
I left. I loved myself. I loved my – I loved . . . I hated myself.
“Sometimes it’s nice to be taken care of.”
You could be the greatest person, perform the grandest gestures, but if that someone never valued the love you showed them in the first place, they never would.
And seeing Bryce walk towards the cabin alone, hands in his pockets with his head hung low, I realized I wasn’t worth it. Not even a little bit.
And as we walked past the imperial staircase and carpeted floors, my tipsy mind began listing words that rhymed with Blu. True. Clue. Flew. Hue.
No one stayed. No one cared. Any ounce of love within me died, but it was justified. How could anyone love a fractured soul? A sad girl who couldn’t control the carnage of emotions that lived within her?
I knew nothing about Jace Boland, other than the truth I knew about everyone else. They’d always leave.
Because Karma would come after me, that much I knew – Whether I let her go of her or not, she’d always be my Blu.
The pressure I carried to be the girl he wanted was overwhelming and unattainable. I’d broken every part of me trying to fit into that pretty, perfect mould. I’d lost sight of who I was just so he could glance in my direction for one second – because that one second was my heroin. And he watched me overdose.
She left. Only her eyes said goodbye. Oh Blu . . . What have I done?
It was exhausting to chase after someone who never wanted you from the start. It was even more exhausting to pretend that there was a chance in hell you could change their mind. “Honestly Jace . . . ” How real was I getting? Screw it. “You fucked me over,” I started, bleeding into the pain I felt for months. “You fucked me up. And yet, you come back every time. Why? Why do you insist on doing this to me?” His response may have been the most honest thing he’s ever said, and that terrified me. In one breath, he shattered my soul. “You let me.”
My Blu, who I hurt, who I broke and shattered and it was me – Me who deserved it. Not her. My Blu . . . God, my poor fucking Blu.
But even still, I couldn’t stop looking at the iPhone screen, wishing I could send her a message through my mind – wishing there was no proof of my feelings, that a private bubble existed around my conversations with her – only her. Just Blu. Just me and Blu. The only two that mattered. My hue.
I was the firecracker. He lit the spark. I was the puppet. He was the puppeteer. I was the colour. He was the hue. He was the hue. My fucking hue.
Because where I carried clouds and wind and precipitation, he carried the sun, the stars and the sky. Yeah, that’s what he was. My sun. And I was his rain. I was his fucking rain.
I held her. I held her and traced the lines of her scars, hidden beneath tattoos. I held her, memorizing the curve of her lips and outline of her hips. I held her because I could. Because in this moment, she needed me and I was able to right some wrongs. So, I held her, because a gnawing feeling told me this might be one of the last times I would.
He never did anything with me as the primary focus. I was never a priority, never first. I satisfied him, but I was never enough to fulfill him.
