The Places I've Cried in Public

by Holly Bourne

Amelie fell hard for Reese. And she thought he loved her too. But she’s starting to realize that real love isn’t supposed to hurt like this.

My fashion style is essentially, If some old person has recently died in a dress, that’s the dress I want to wear. I don’t even own a pair of jeans.

What scares me most of all, Reese, is that now, back in this stuffy refectory, with my soul sucked dry and my heart beyond repair…I…I… I still worry I’d do it all over again. What have you done to me, Reese?

Let’s unpack this now, though, shall we? Right here, in this stuffy canteen, with you in the corner ignoring me. With my brain rewired so it constantly misfires between hating you and wanting you back, and then hating myself for wanting you back.

He stared at me then in a way that made it impossible not to believe him. And I stared right back, not understanding what was happening but knowing something most certainly was happening.

He smiled and it was the sort of smile that could be printed onto posters and sold to hysterical girls to pin over their beds.

We leave behind echoes of our lives everywhere we go, trapping them into the fabric of the world around us.

I’m making a memory map. About you and all the places you’ve made me cry. I reckon it’s going to hurt like hell, but it’s the only thing I can think of to figure this whole mess out.

He reached out for my heavy tote and I honestly found it romantic rather than patronizing and archaic, because we’ve established already that I’m a giant idiot. “Are

and I swear it was the most intense, intimate thing that had ever happened to me. If I could have paused that moment, I would have. I’d have paused it, and climbed into it and wrapped myself up in it like it was a blanket, pulling it over my shoulders.

The thing about undeniable truths is that the truth is never set in stone, so their undeniability always has a sell-by date. What is true morphs and changes as we turn the pages of our lives, morphing and changing ourselves as we inevitably lose control of what happens to us and the impact it will have.

But, I guess, isn’t that always the way with dramatic moments? They don’t play out like in the films, with stunning backdrops that reflect the drama of your life. Your heart can break at a regular bus stop, or on a grotty train, or on some crap patch of grass near your house. You don’t need dramatic settings to experience dramatic emotions.

course. I went from not knowing you existed, to feeling like I couldn’t exist without you. What was so wonderful was knowing you felt exactly the same. Well, so you kept telling me.

Good memories exist in the naivety of not knowing any better.

I remember thinking, Nothing can ruin this. Which is a silly thing to think really, because the moment you have such a thought, the world goes, Oh, you think, do you?

I’m starting to think that some boys make girls cry, and then act like they’re crazy for crying.

Guts and hearts aren’t always the most compatible – I’m starting to learn that. They pull in different directions, ignoring one another when they really shouldn’t. I think I need help working out which one I’m supposed to listen to.

“Okay,” she said. “But was he consistently kind? Kindness isn’t a reward for good behaviour, Amelie. It should be a given.”

I’m starting to realize something. I’m starting to realize that craziness may not always come from within. I’m starting to think lows aren’t worth highs – not in love. Not in something where the most important thing is to feel safe.

It’s such a simple torture – the silent treatment. As basic as tripping someone over or pulling their chair out before they sit down. And yet it’s so very effective. When someone has the willpower to pretend you’re not there, it nullifies you. How do you fight against that humiliation?

You can’t force pain to leave until it’s ready to. Like the most annoying party guest, it only leaves in its own sweet goddamned time. Meanwhile there’s nothing you can do but carry it until it’s ready to be released. But understanding the pain – why it’s there, why it’s not leaving – it makes that burden much easier to bear.

It always used to be like this between us – me holding my breath and holding my breath and holding my breath and then, just when I thought I would pass out, you’d come back to me.

“One of the things the brain does to feel safe, is it creates an intense bond with the person who hurts us. It’s the ego’s way of protecting itself.

“Another thing to consider, Amelie, is that if someone is inconsistent with how they treat us…our body can get addicted to being in a nervous state. Waiting for it to get better, feeling sick and depressed and terrible when it doesn’t – but then we get a flood of happy hormones when this person is finally nice to us again. It’s a bit like being on drugs. You’re never sure when you’ll get your next ‘hit’ of niceness.

Love hurts. That’s what they always say, isn’t it? Is it real if it’s not hurting? Can you trust it’s love if it doesn’t punch you in the face?

Maybe it’s not passion, but caution? Shouldn’t you be cautious? If you’re going to go through the emotional stripping necessary to give your heart to another? To let them hold it beating in the palms of their hands, both of you knowing they can close their fingers at any time and squash it to mush?

“The trauma it causes is just the same as if he had hit you,” Joan told me, pulling out another tissue. “Trauma is trauma. Your brain and body don’t differentiate between physical and emotional abuse. They only respond to attack. Attack that you didn’t deserve, Amelie. Nobody deserves to be treated the way this boy treated you.”

I may have lost a lot of tears. I may’ve lost my trust and my dignity and my friends and my hope, but I didn’t lose me. Not entirely. I was brave enough to leave just a sliver of myself that can regenerate and regrow. So many girls don’t. Always, always be the girl who does.