When We Collided

by Emery Lord

Most of her pieces look, to the untrained eye, like a total mess. A joyful, colorful, total mess. It is not so hard to see how she made me, too.

Now it’s just me and Vivi, and I’m not sure what to say. I’d rather flirt by making her really good food.

But life surprises you. It tells you to close your eyes and blow out the candles, and then sometimes smashes your face into the cake before you can even make a wish. But! Sometimes, every once in a while, you get your wish in.

All night long, I dare the stars to outlast me, and I’d say the score’s about even during the average week.

“Jonah, I swear on my favorite vintage dress that what you’re saying is not crazy by my standards. Sad? Difficult? Yes. But there is nothing crazy about that kind of grief, especially when it’s totally justified and normal.”

“I’ve always loved that the tides are caused by the moon,” I explain. I give him my most enticing grin, trying to melt him into a more relaxed version of himself. “So far away, but so beautiful. So powerful. I can always feel it tugging at me, too.”

Most of the time, I feel drunk on Vivi. Light-headed and wanting more, more, more. But then there are moments where being with her feels like a cruel hangover.

we are seventeen and shattered and still dancing. We have messy, throbbing hearts, and we are stronger than anyone could ever know.

I also know that emotions come from the brain. So why do people feel real aches in their chests? Why does it feel like we carry every feeling in our cores?

I’m not saying I hate Jim Bukowski because, you know, I try really hard not to have hatred in my life. It’s just . . . you know that Sunday-night feeling, where the dread of reality sinks in, that you’ve mismanaged your time and now the anxiety of homework and the wasteland of early mornings and school stretches ahead of you? Well, I hope he has that feeling every minute of every day of his entire life. That’s all.

If you want to push someone away, I strongly recommend rambling about death and theology. That oughta do it.

He has medication and therapy. He’s had some hard weeks in a great, big life.

She doesn’t have to be sunny for me. That’s not how it works.

You also told me to ask what people need and listen. This is me asking. I’m listening. In the meantime, here’s a pie in case that’s what you need. That hospital food looked disgusting.

I’d want you to realize that bipolar disorder is just one facet of a multidimensional life. That takes a lot of thought about what you want that life to look like. And, beyond medication and therapy, I would counsel you to accept your diagnosis. That? Comes with time and experience.”

Wabi-sabi says rust and faded paint hold beauty. So what if I let these marks be passport stamps from where I’ve been—ones that don’t determine a damn thing about where I’m going next?

My mom, even the nurses, they give me these ridiculous, flowery platitudes, like they’re reading straight off a sympathy card. But what I really need is to fucking scream because this feels like a war that I got thrown into, and I don’t know how I can be so tired and mad at the same time . . .”

But the point is that trying to make things better sometimes makes us better, too. The point is I’m trying to create good things in the midst of the bad. Grief or no grief.

“I’ve always loved the Wizard of Oz, you know? Every girl wants to be Dorothy Gale or maybe Glinda. I never wanted to be the tornado.”

“When we collided, we bounced each other back into orbit. And now we have to do that—we have to return to our own paths because that’s what we gave each other.”

I wish I could explain everything to Jonah. But bipolar disorder is an untranslatable term. I could tell him that sometimes it feels like being on a carnival ride, so fast and dizzying and fun at first. Then it goes on for too long, and you can’t stop.

bipolar disorder is so complex, and it’s mine. My feelings have back rooms and trapdoors, and I’m still learning them.

That’s the thing they never tell you about love stories: just because one ends, that doesn’t mean it failed. A cherry pie isn’t a failure just because you eat it all. It’s perfect for what it is, and then it’s gone. And exchanging the truest parts of yourself—all the things you are—with someone? What a slice of life. One I’ll carry with me into every single someday.

Maybe in my next life, I’ll be a wave in the ocean, and you’ll be a mountain, and we’ll spend years and years brushing up against each other.