Only Love Can Hurt Like This

by Paige Toon

My mother has always told me to trust my instincts. But it’s hard to trust your instincts when they’re breaking your heart.

After talking nonstop the whole way here, I’m confused as to why neither of us found the words to say goodbye.

But then I remember that I’ve probably seen the last of him and my fizzy feelings are washed away by a wave of loneliness. It’s a sensation I’m all too familiar with.

I’m tougher than I used to be, not because I fight, but because I don’t. That’s the way I cope, the way I ensure that things don’t hurt me as much as they used to.

“Take care,” he says. “You too.” And, just like that, it’s winter again.

“How are you finding work at the moment?” “Dull.” “What are you going to do about it?” She gives me a funny look. “Nothing. This is my life now,” she adds melodramatically.

“But I bet you don’t make a fool of yourself often,” he concedes. My insides sparkle because he’s right. I’m almost always quite composed. Unless I’m drunk. And then I really can’t account for my behavior.

Bailey heads up the path to her front door, flashing me a small smile over her shoulder as she goes inside and shuts the door. I don’t know why I feel sorry for her, but I do.

I read something recently about the importance of doing things in life that bring you joy.

I’m not religious, but there is something good and wholesome about this chain of hands that we’ve formed, this feeling of togetherness.

I do that, I’ve realized, make judgments about people, assume they’re thinking one thing when I’m often the one who’s getting it wrong.

I wasn’t enough for him. I’m not enough. Will I ever be enough? Will I ever be someone’s perfect match?

she clings to my waist, opening up her other arm to widen the circle. And I don’t think it’s because she wants to keep control or doesn’t like being excluded. I kind of get the feeling it’s because she’s not quite ready to let go of me yet.

“Do I look all right?” I ask uncertainly. “You look beautiful,” Dad replies. It’s not that I desperately want to be told that I’m pretty, or beautiful, or that I even particularly care that much what I look like. I’m fine as I am, I really am. But oh, it’s the way that he said it, my dad, as though he’s told me all my life. The casualness of it makes my eyes water.

I didn’t know it was possible to love so fully and hurt so deeply at exactly the same time.

You can’t help who you fall in love with.

“But you can help him, Wren. You can give him something to fight for. You are worth fighting for. Show him that you’re willing to fight for him too.”

She’s stronger than she looks. And I realize: I haven’t broken her. I haven’t broken us. This is Wren. Wren doesn’t give up. She doesn’t quit. And neither will I. Not on her. Never again.