Love is Pain

<b>Nov. 18 | 5:00 pm | 25 days before the deadline</b>

Almost three weeks had passed since Jack and Sophie had their I'm sorry moment. Time was slipping through their hands, like grains of sand slipping through their fingers. They had begun the assignment, but they had nothing past the first annotations. They were desperate. Trying to figure out how they will introduce specific ideas to their work.

—We are screwed. —Jack's head was resting on the table. Maybe he was exhausted, perhaps he had just lost his will to live. (will to live = will to do an assignment)

—We are indeed.

—Wait what? You are usually the one that forces me to work again. You can't say we're screwed.

—We are, we are missing a lot of ideas from the book, and certain chapters entirely. — Her voice grew quieter with every word she said

—We can use only specific topics and motifs, maybe the ones in the introductory paragraph, the book revolves around those seven main ideas, we can use those ideas to forward our everything.

—Our everything?

—Yeah, our everything, I'm tired, and I forgot how to speak.

—Mood.—She zoned out for a second before returning to herself and say.— So, we should use at first the idea that love makes you vulnerable as an opening?

—And then we can go one motif after the other, hunting them down, it's easier, and maybe we can finish on time.

—Sounds about right. —She jiggled a bit after that, with that tiny truthful smile that, in a way, you could see how it was the only thing that kept her life together, happiness.

They were working in silence for about half an hour when Jack asked her a question.

—So, Sophie. What do you think about the motif we are using as an opening?

—It is what it is. What do you want me to say? Love is a bitch. Love is like firecrackers in a bouncy ball. It will be fun, it will be scary, but let that thing bounce close to you, and you will find yourself yelling "merde" as you cry because you burned your leg. It will be a childish stand to believe that love is fun and games. Love is allowing others to do what you hate and still love those little quirks they have. It's a weird thing. And it's even worse for us, at this age, where the sight of a collarbone makes us drool and have our lust hit unimaginable places. Every time I have a certain feeling, I ask myself: are they a crush? Are they just here because I feel a little bit lonely? Do I want to be with them, or do I want to be like them? We are 18 for god's sake. Some of my friends are getting laid, others have never kissed someone, others had their heart broken once, and they haven't had anything since then. It's a weird world, an odd age, a bizarre feeling. Yet I'm sure that love is being vulnerable and strong at the same time. It is a lovely irony, is open your weak spots to someone and let them become that weak point, but by doing that, you are free of your weak points.

She was in the Sophie-zone, so focused on her words that she was ignoring everything happening around her, she was ignoring Jack, ignoring her coffee getting colder.

—You should become a writer. Those words are filled with bittersweet feelings, and I can't stop thinking, "God, why didn't I meet this girl before." You know, you are awesome. Awesome in a way that I can't express. It's like you were raised by the ancient poets. As if you have muses whispering the right words to your ear, the proper order, the right way to say things. You are not afraid of judgment, or at least you pretend you are not. You mix your life with your words. You make the words dance in my head and come close enough to slap me. And I love it, I don't want to know if I'm a masochist for liking that pain of listening to the words and worlds I will never see, but hell, I love those worlds.

—You are stupid. I can't be a writer, what should I write about? My life is change, and my love language is pain. You have a better future as a poet than the "future" I would have as a writer. I see myself as a counselor. And you are my challenge. The Sad Edgy Boy (™), my challenge is to make your life happy enough for you to relax that facade.

—Hold on. Please. I think I'm having a stroke. You called me Sad Edgy Boy and a poet. What the fuck?

—You'll grow into it, Jacky.

—What if I don't?

—Missed character development.

—Great, I can't wait to become a supporting character in the story of someone else.

—Sometimes I can't read through your sarcasm.

—Sometimes?

—Sometimes.