How Freaking Romantic

by Emily Harding

It wasn’t necessarily that the pain had dissipated. I feel too much too often for that. It’s just that anger is such a useful tool against it all. Protection that ensures you’re always ready for the pain, that you can fend it off and walk away unscathed. A proverbial suit of armor that I have gotten quite good at wielding, thank you very much.

That’s the bit people always forget. Pain is anger’s neglectful parent.

Monday arrives with as much fanfare as a pap smear: horrifying but necessary.

‘Love’s not supposed to be easy. But if you’re lucky, it’s simple.’ ” Not easy, just simple, I think as I let out a long breath.

And I think about the years I had spent holding on to love for the people around me, how much I gave to make sure they were happy and safe—only to still be here, in the same place, as they all moved on.

“Flowers and chocolate and jewelry, it’s all bought for the sole purpose of being romantic, and that automatically defeats the purpose.” His blue eyes are studying me so intensely that my mouth snaps shut and I need to look away, take a moment to formulate my thoughts. “If something is really, truly romantic, it isn’t self-referential. You know?”

“Romance exists. It’s just so hard to define, we stopped trying and told ourselves we can buy it instead.”

“You’re not a lot, Bea. You care about the people in your life. You defend them and you don’t try to be anyone other than yourself. If anybody has a problem with that, it just means they’ve learned somewhere along the line that those things are faults. That’s for them to work out, not you.”

You deserve the same care and love you give away to everyone else, Bea. And at some point, you need to fight for you just as much as you fight for everybody else.”