Passion Project

by London Sperry

We stare at each other for a fraction of a second, and I almost feel like I’m looking at a different person. He’s not a simple optimist. His personality can’t be explained away by calling him an extrovert and nothing else. He thinks about life, about people, and he misses his dad. He has a story—a sad, sweet story that plucks the few strings that are left in my heart. It makes me feel mushy and uncomfortable and curious and anxious all at the same time.

“Well,” he says. “You brought me to Home Depot for some reason, and then I said the word sexy and everything got weird.”

Having your shit together is not a prerequisite for love.

Here, I’m broken, but in a beautiful way, in a way that all my pieces reflect light and color, not darkness.