Living Big, Bold, and Beautiful

  Falling in love with your best friend sucked. It was a dance. A tango. It goes forward, it goes backward, a dip, an almost kiss- and then you part. The dance is over, and you think, maybe you shouldn’t have told her. Maybe this was some cruel twist of fate because the world hates you. Everyone leaves you anyway. Your family left you. They died, no, killed by your own brother. That same brother that told you next time. It was always next time. That next time never came. The next time you saw him, he… your brother… your brother left you. He left you alive. He told you to live. To fight. To find him. To kill him. You couldn’t understand you were so young. She tried to be there for you. You remember it like it was just yesterday. After that fateful night at the academy, she stared at you with those big, moon-like eyes. The bell-like cadence of her voice ringing to your ears, but you couldn’t understand what she said. You stared at her the way the infinite space would the dark side of...

/ˈfɛʁnveː/ The ache of missing somewhere you’ve never gone to. It was warm. It was the sort of physical warmth that you felt whenever you drank a cup of hot cocoa on a cold December night amongst friends and loved ones. It was sweet, and it felt like home. I mean, not that I would know. I never really liked hot cocoa. I’ve always liked the taste of black coffee more. It’s strong and straight to the point. That is what home feels like to me, but when she’s wrapped around my arms and when her back touches my chest, I question myself if black coffee is really what I want my home to feel like. Growing up, I never really knew what it truly felt like to have an actual home. What I knew about it is simply from a mixture of observation, stories, and books. I lost my parents and my older brother at a young age. It was a freak accident, they say. One night after my older brother’s piano concert, they were driving home, and a drunken truck driver hit them like a bowling ball. Both my parents died...