The Dead Romantics

by Ashley Poston

“I can’t ever control how someone else treats me, but I can control how I choose to live and how I choose to treat others. And I’d worried about what other people thought and what other people wanted from me for years because I actually thought it mattered.”

“So I forgive you,” I said to her, “because you don’t understand, and I’m not going to explain it to you.

“He wouldn’t wish for that. He knows she’s perfectly capable of it on her own. She just needs a little more faith in herself.” His ears started turning pink. “Because even though she can’t see how talented she is, he knows she’ll figure it out someday.”

Love wasn’t a whisper in the quiet night. It was a yelp into the void, screaming that you were here.

I didn’t know if she was telling the truth, or if she had some ulterior motives—to look better if word got out about our confrontation? To paint me as the spoiled woman who never grew up? See? Heather did change, it was Florence who couldn’t let the past die!

Or . . . maybe that was my brain being cold and bitter. Thinking everyone had an ulterior motive when maybe, this was just what it looked like.

“Are you okay?”

“I mean—that’s the wrong question. Is . . . is there anything I can do?”

“You’re very thoughtful.”

“You’re hurting. It’s hard to see.”

“Am I that ugly a...

“No—I mean yes, but no—I ...

“I wish I could do something. Anything. Take you in my arms and hug you and tell you that things are going to hurt ...

She told me that you don’t ever lose the sadness, but you learn to love it because it becomes a part of you, and bit by bit, it fades. And, eventually, you’ll pick yourself back up and you’ll find that you’re okay. That you’re going to be okay. And eventually, it’ll be true.”