Love--unconscious cognizance of admiration for another's heart, to discover that the soul of another is what will fill the gap of one's own. Gasping out short breaths through a bitten tongue to hold back the phrase that will change everything, that could send one running for the hills or running into arms. My heart rests in her hands and she has the ability to either massage it out of pathetic arrhythmia or tear it straight from my chest.

The pathetic arrhythmia that is brought about by the mere thought of her figure or the sound of her voice, the remembrance of the locks I long to tangle in my fingers or the chicken scratch nature of her handwriting. The arrhythmia that shakes my lungs and forces an ache in my ribs. I, thump. Love, thump. You, Phoebe, ta-thump.

The origin of the arrhythmia was between the bookshelves full of sheet music and details of lives lived by persons of musicality. All by complete coincidence did I meet those jade eyes that match her jaded soul. All by complete coincidence did the candy rope of her sickly sweet voice wrap around my love muscle and tie up my heart strings into little taffy bows with my arteries knotted like bloodied Red Vines.

The slim chancings of falling in love with the reflecting blaze of light that has become the central star of my solar system force me to simultaneously blindly believe and refute the existence of soulmates. By what chances have I found the kindred soul I'm meant to lock with my own through the intertwining of fingers, the moulding of lips, and the untangling of minds? By what chances did a rainy day force me under the awning of the mom-n-pop bookshop for which I'd never ran into her before, the hour of my break being interlaced with the hours of her shift so perfectly that she would attempt to aid a bitter body in the scour for a new story, only to be met with an air of arrogance and disheartening dislike for the world?

If soulmates are well and true, then she is mine. She has to be the missing half of my soul, she has to be the metempsychosis of my late mother, the twin flame to the woman whom I'd be nothing without--the woman I owe my name and everything else. The fostering of my passion and God willing my well founded dream, my well developed heart that was once so fiercely guarded with now unwarranted armour, and my perspective of this world--everything, I owe to her.

If soulmates are ill and fallacious, then she is but another soul on this ever spinning orbitor smashing the mirrors that would force her mirroring the actions of everyone her life intertwines with. She has to be the singular soul that has a purpose, a soul that walks this earth to preserve the naive notion of soulmates and love. She must be the coincidental crashing of the cymbal of my atrium and ventricle that forces that continuous arrhythmia of thump, thump, ta-thump.

She is the reason for my refusal but hesitant acceptance of fate, of soulmates. My one's promised by the placement of the stars and revolution of the earth. She is the one I owe my life to, the life of promising them wrong.

The life that they denied fervently and broke apart with the beeping of a horn and start of an engine in a dim garage. The life that built the singular window in my cell and allowed for her light to cast a signal of remarkable drop of Sunshine. The pitch black cell littered with alcohol induced nightmarish creatures, disfigurements of my past with a ground enveloped in glass shards, no navigable path visible without tearing the skin off of the soles of my feet and tearing through the depths of my conscience--it has been dismantled slowly but surely. She has brought light to it and slain the monsters of my mind, swept up the shards to create a navigable path that will leave my feet unschathed and tear through the depths of my conscience to create a brighter and securely more beautiful version of myself.

She's given me exactly what I needed to authentically grind out the kinks in myself to discover a polished and achieved canvas. She's given me the illumination needed to perceive the colors of paint, now it's all up to me to drag the pigments across it to develop a masterpiece.

I've given up all hesitation, hesitation to indulge myself. I've indulged myself in my passion--of music and of her heart.

Love--it's all that I've thought of as I listen to the steady rain outside and treat the merchandise I replace on the shelves as the picked petals of a sunflower. One, she loves me. The next, she loves me not. Again, she loves me. One more, she loves me not. Each casing that slips from my grip as it falls into place on the shelf is another unnerving reminder of the catastrophic carousel I've forced myself onto because I trusted myself to guard my heart fiercely but tore off my armor the moment I caught a glimpse of hers.

The key to my cell now rests in her hands, a physical copy of the embodiment of myself printed onto a locksmith's creation that ticks the lock of the threshold to my residence. I am the sunflower--the flora that reach for rays of light so steadfastly they constantly search for it in the sky, petals outstretched to absorb the lifesource and paint themselves the color of its light.

The wiping down of windows and the dusting of surfaces signals the release of my muscles from labor and the sending off of myself to her arms. Her day of work was meant to end with her return to my homely loft, the tug in my gut praying she'll lay on my bed with nothing by a borrowed button down serving as a lazy shielding of her body for me to tear away so I can feast on the flesh of her beautiful build.

The lights flipped to power off and the door locked, waves to my grandparents as they walk to their own home down the road as I rush off to mine. I rush up the stairs, the creaking of rusting metal the soundtrack to my trek, I rush to my home--my Sunshine.

Each creak is reminiscent of the petals that lie on the lush lawn of my paradise, taunting me with 'she loves mes and she loves me nots.'

I pull my keys from my pocket with a distressing anticipation in my fingers and excitement in the beat of my heart. Thump, thump, ta-thump.

I go to twist the key in my lock but it won't go, it's already unlocked. She left it unlocked for me. She beat me here, my salacious mind wanders to her sensually strewn across my silky sheets in satin.

I take the handle in my hand and open the door, my eyes shooting to an empty bed. No satin skin shielded in satin stuff strewn across my silky sheets. Where is my Sunshine?

Sniffles and the crinkle of plastic has my vision shifting to a saddening sight--she sits hunched with sorrow on my floor, legs criss crossed with a sleeve of saltines diminishing in her shivering hands. Her depressed state leaves her circulatory system absent of any serotonin, the moonlight casting a forlorn shadow onto her. Her nervous system demanding her to fidget with the raw skin of her nail beds and mince of the internal tissue cheeks.

Her downhearted eyes turned a bloodshot red and inflamed from the saline trails that stain her face with markedly miserable mascara ridden rivers. Her cheeks puffy and blotchy with broken blood vessels as her chest heaves out shallow breaths that leave her ribcage quivering.

My sweet girl, my Sunshine, reduced to a puddle of tiring tears on the grounds of an unknown atrocity.

I swing the door shut and slide down it, sitting with my knees to my chest across from her. I reach my hand out to her which she feebly takes in her icy own.

"Sunshine," I start with a soft and somber tone, "What's happened to leave you so dim?"

Her head shakes harshly as her gasps for air are interrupted by shuddered silent sobs, "I never wanted that. It's not fair and it's humiliating."

I lean forward to perch myself onto my haunches as I dip my head to meet her saline sodden gaze, "What happened, I can't help you if you don't tell me?"

"How much longer will I have to be the bigger person?" She chokes out. I open my mouth to speak but she continues, "I've been the bigger person since I was born, do you know how exhausting that is? To bail out the detrimental faults of those who are supposed to protect you continuously for years on end, even when it kills you? I'm so tired."

"Is it your mother? Did she come into your work? I'll-" I can't help the raising volume of my voice in anger and helplessness. How much longer does this disastrous woman have to torment my Phoebe's body, mind, and heart?

There's a long pause, a tension filled quiet--one that leaves my mind reeling in rage and limbs gelatine in grief. A silent so discomforting I fight myself not to break it.

This uncomfortable silence lasts, it lasts for years--mere seconds turn to days and minutes to years. It ages me so it feels as though I've become worn and wrinkled, warped and weak.

"I have to, have to tell you everything," she stutters shakily, "So that you can know me."

All I do in response is move closer, our crossed legs touching as I take saltines from the half eaten sleeve to reduce my fidgeting, to appear more calm and composed than my screaming mind would reveal.

A lifetime of study, I was dedicated to it.

I was dedicated, although I could've never known.

I was dedicated, although it could've been an eternity without expertise.

But to be a novice is greater than to be a stranger.

But now I'll know.

Although to be a novice is greater than to be a stranger, I'll now know.

Although it could've been an eternity without expertise, I'll now know.

Although I could've never known, I'll now know.

A lifetime of study, I was dedicated, but now I'll know.

I'll know her.

Yes, superficially, I know her--her name is Phoebe, she eats pancakes without batting a lash, she thieves french fries than grin, she works half-heartedly even though writing is truly her passion, her weapon of disinterest is disarmed with a passage or the right person, she is kind but guards her heart fiercely. No, truly, I don't know her--she guards her heart fiercely, her disinterest is her sharpest sword, her passions are kept close to her chest, her past her biggest secret, her name is Phoebe but I don't know who she is.

I know only what she allows me to, I've taken the evidence of what she's endured under a dim light, certainly to examine the brief detailing of her mishandling and quieted torment. I know who she is but I know not why. I have yet to comprehend her harbored self-hatred and her debilitating hesitation. Her hesitiation to indulge in herself, to authetically grind out the kinks in herself to rid herself of the dulled and incompetent weight.

"My mother's name is Clare. She's a meth addict but would use anything she could get her hands on, she was abusive, but you already know that. My biological father, Timothy, has been in and out of jail since I was three, but you already know that. They had Teddy at sixteen and me at eighteen. I don't remember Timothy, I don't remember if he was kind or cruel, short or tall, I only remember his name. Bob married my mother when I was about six, but you already know that." She speaks through shallow breaths and a broken heart. Silent tears spread the tarnished makeup across her face as she brings the index finger of her knuckle to wipe it away.

I nod.

"For a short period of time, when my mother first met Bob, she was clean. She didn't use anything minus her cigarettes, it was the one habit she claimed she would never be able to break. That ended up being one of various habits she couldn't break--crystal meth, beating her children, adultery--cigarettes were the least of her problems." She says through weak laughter, saddened laughter. "But she was kind in that short period of time, kind enough to trick Bob into staying. Right after they got married, not even two months after, she became her old self. She went back to combing the streets for any fix she could find and fucking anyone that could bring her closer to it. Bob worked his ass off to keep our household afloat, to keep the lights on and food on the table. He worked his ass off so we could succeed in life while she walked around in a daze of hysteria and filthy men."

I just continue to shovel saltines and stare.

"Bob was married to our mom until we were teenagers, he left her sorry ass after he found out she'd been cheating on him. I think he always knew but he couldn't do anything because he didn't have the finances to leave her. He was the one source of light and love we had growing up, our one source of normalcy. Teddy and I both emancipated from our parents when I was sixteen, the year I got my job at the bookstore. They were more than enthusiastic to kick us to the curb. Bob legally adopted both of us, he's an angel on this earth and the only true father I've ever had."

She rubs her eyes with the heels of her palms, "I'm littered in scars you can't see--on my body, in my mind, in my heart. My left foot is mangled, destroyed from the inside out, all my tendons and ligaments are tightened and my bones are fragile. That's why I get mango milkshakes for free at Tiff's, when I was eight years old. Bob was out of town on business, leaving Teddy and I to suffer with my mother. I'd dropped a plate in the kitchen and she chased after me, screaming in my face. I tried to outrun her but she took a wooden chair and crashed its leg into my foot, sending sharp agony through my leg. She dug the wooden stake into my foot over and over again until I collapsed on the ground and was a pile of weeping bones. I'd limped out of the house and to Tiff's, I didn't know where else to go. Bob always took us to Tiff's on days when my mother was being especially cruel and so it was instinctual. My reddened, running nose and leaking tear ducts were met with a warm hug from Tiff and a large mango milkshake, my favorite. I found comfort in everyone but her. She would tell me how worthless I was everyday, every time she was high and everytime she was going through withdrawals. She would tell me how bright I was so seldomly, everyday she was clean. I hate her and I despise her but I hate myself more because I can't help but love her. I love her because for a short time she was my mother, even though for the rest of my life she was a monster."

A sob forces her to stop and take a few deep breaths, I run my hand along her shin in comforting strokes to settle her the best I can, "Is this too much?"

I shake my head wildly, "You tell me as much as you want to, I can take it."

I can feel the water threatening to leak from my eyes and a tightness in my chest that inhibits my breathing. My heart aches so fiercely for her--my Sunshine, my heart's missing piece, has seen so much of what I wished no one ever would and I know I don't even know all of it yet.

She nods and continues, "She's dying. Her body has had enough and her organs are failing. I went to the hospital today, with a letter, telling her how much I hate her and how much I love her. She was asleep and I can't decide if I am grateful for it or devastated. I didn't have to face the monster I fear most but I didn't get to face the mother I needed most. I told her, even though she couldn't hear me, that she wasn't fair to me. I told her everything I always needed to, I told her I wish she could've been who I needed her to be and that I wish I could've been something she'd always wanted."

I tug her into me, the few saltines left being crushed between us and spreading crumbs across the both of us, a short snort slipping from her nose that lightens the air before the cloud cover darkens it again.

"Oh, Phoebe, I'm so sorry." I wrap my arms around her and bring my hand to the back of her head before pulling it away.

She nuzzles into my chest, "No, leave your hand there, please."

I lift my hand to the hair I'd been denied for so long and drag my fingers through her soft, fiery locks. It's terrifying, it feels wrong, even with her permission I feel as though I'm breaking the law. It's terrifying but I can't stop the smile it tugs on my lips and the arrhythmia it starts in my heart. Thump, thump, ta-thump. The windowsill of my soul splintered as salted tears fall from my eyes.

"I'm so proud of you." I gush, "I lo- longed for you to tell me and I'm honored that you have."

She pulls her head back from its resting place on my chest, her panda eyes meeting mine with a fierce verdant stare that rips up my vocal chords and shatters my heart, "I'm not finished, unless it's too much."

"Illuminate me, Sunshine."

My brows drop in befuddlement and drops of sadness spill from my narrowing eyes, my mouth falling agape at her next words, "I have to tell you about him and how you saved me."

I want to tell her, tell her that I didn't save her, she saved herself, she saved me. I don't know where I'd be if it was not for her assertive caring, honesty about boundaries that forced me to pull my lips away from the neck of the bottle to bring them to hers. My grandparents' kindness could only stretch so far, their love has conditions, as everyone's does. No love is truly unconditional, we all have our limits, we all have our boundaries--even heavenly love cannot save us from living hell.

She saved herself. I was merely a secondary character to her development, the plot of her life twisting surely towards lightness rather than an eternity in the darkness that was her own mind but her determined nature would have forced her to grow, to stretch her petals to the sky for some sort of life sustaining light, even if it wasn't the Sunshine she's come to know. Her locks would have eventually grown gorgeously ginger and her scars would have healed so well the light would have to cast just right to refract the shining discoloration of torment, I was not the healer of her wounds but simply the shelter from the storms that mutilated her. All she needed was shelter from the storm, a break from the thunderous claps and striking lightning, she needed somewhere warm and bright to heal herself. She did it all on her own, I was just here to watch and fall in love.

Her uneven breathing is interrupted by forced long exhales, deep breaths to compose her splintering soul, her voice meek as she begins, "I was sixteen, freshly sixteen by only a few days."

...

Phoebe

I stumble around my room, scanning it for anything resembling an appropriate ensemble. I've never been to a party and I can't afford to make another poor first impression. I only have acquaintances at school, that's all you can have when you're fearful of bringing them to your disaster of a house and monster of a mother.

Sixteen, another year older, and nothing has changed. I still only speak to Ivy in homeroom and Rebecca at lunch, the rest of my day is spent in silent reflection. All I've done my whole life is reflect--reflect on the moments of joyous love and years of earth shattering hatred. But I've gotta stop living in the past, dazing away the present in an effort to ignore any spark that could lead to false hope. A false hope that people are decent and love is real.