her.

Hardin Scott and I only have everything in common.

I've read hundreds of novels in my life, most of them claiming that love is the center of the universe. That it could heal any damage inside of us, and that it was what we needed to survive. From Darcy to Heathcliff, I deemed them all fools. I thought that love was something fictional, only found in worn pages of books; that it was just to keep us humans full of hope, that it was a lie.

But it all changed, everything, since I found my Elizabeth Bennett. I never thought I would find myself completely and utterly consumed by another, until her. She took my hands and let me out of darkness, and showed me that whatever our souls are made of, hers and mine are the same.

While some argue that love is fleeting, I now know for a fact that it endures, it's we who don't last for our minds are always on the verge of the uncertain. I may have failed at it once, and here is my story. I hope someday you, my Elizabeth, would read this, and understand just how broken I was."

Half of her beauty is her brains, and thus, she has always confounded me. One in every fifty unassuming girls that's what she is, and yes, she knew it. She knew it all, yet to me as though she knew nothing. Like Alan Turing, she was my Enigma. " I would break her soon, " I've always murmured, but I still haven't had that firm grasp of her code.

Her “a hundred watts” bright forehead, always shining; her gentle skin, harmonious blend of what you’d call melanin or caramel, ever soft. You cannot fathom true sweetness until you taste her skin. I have, in all of my reveries. It is as though I am drowning in the pool of her eyes, through mine, when I gaze at her. It’s so darning, I am unable to discern if her glasses are recommended or she’s blind, I just am always lost in what didn’t see my intentions, the lenses behind.

She moves through life with an effortless grace, that gentle touch that soothes the ache of my soul. Her being speaks volumes, each gesture a silent testament to the depth of her kindness.

I pulled some strings with the universe, with whom I have history, that’s how we met. We, unlike Romeo and Juliet, didn’t start out as friends. Her essence, when she waltzed into the room, was my alter ego. It’s cliché but obligatory that we’d meet, I’d rather us somehow different. Maybe that’s the next favor I’d call in, Universe. Let our first time be the most conventional of ways, the most.

Silent exchanges ruled our world until the day we broke the silence. In her presence, my tongue betrays me, words clinging to the back of my throat like prisoners of war. She’s the said diligent student, devoted to her studies unyielding. And perhaps, in a twisted reflection, so am I. I struggle with the thoughts that she is smarter. Maybe she is, it’s evident on our shared academic charts. It wasn’t a rivalry fueled by competition, but rather an exhilarating dance of intellect and ambition. You would have called it “love,” I mean, my friends dubbed us a ‘power couple,’ but friendship was a foreign concept to me. Such is the plight of one with subtle psychopathy, isn’t it? Despite my solitary existence, her mere presence brought a sense of calm to the chaos of academia. Her intellect was unparalleled, matched only by the quiet confidence. I knew it then, as I know it now — I loved her for it all.

Unlike me, with my cluttered up mind, she possessed a clarity of thought that bordered on the calculated. Every word she spoke seemed to carry something, every action, deliberate and purposeful. Same Neuro-divergence, is it? doesn't matter because I still found myself drawn to her in ways I can't quite explain.

Perhaps it was the allure of the unknown. Each graceful step she took, every confident glance she cast, left me entranced, drawn to the mystery that seemed to shroud her. I’ve watched her move with grace and confidence, and couldn’t help but wonder what secrets lay hidden behind those piercing eyes. Maybe its the mysterious aura she exuded, like a magnet, pulling me nearer and closer, Or it was the cadence in her words, the texture of her lips or the subtle curves of her body, I can’t say. it has to be something, right?

But mere wondering is not enough. Maybe these thoughts and contemplations do not suffice to express the depth of the affection and connection I know we share. For love is more than a concept. More than a mere notion floating in the ether of thoughts. Very much the experiment, the exploration of the depths of our emotions, not just the abstract concept or idea. It is a feeling that defies explanation, transcends words and thoughts, and deeds and action.

The earth knows I made attempts, earnest efforts fueled by actions and deeds, but they dawned on me like trying to catch smoke with bare hands. Not every unassuming girl harbored a penchant for intellect, I’ve come to realize in the shadowed corners of my brokenness. Yet, there she was, my T, my Elizabeth, seemingly attuned to the essence of my being. "Weird," they labeled me, "nerd," they branded me, but she, oh she sees genius in me. Or so I like to believe. With my afflictions that even Einstein did not encounter, perhaps it’s all but a mirage, a figment of my fractured psyche. But in her presence, I find solace, a fleeting moment of respite from the turmoil within.

But does she truly understand the heat that rages within me? Does she see the scars that mar my heart, the wounds that refuse to heal? Does she see the inconsistencies in my condescending dispositions, the difference in our means, does she?

I long to tell her, to tell you, to bare my soul and lay the truth at her feet. But the words catch in my throat, my insecurities suffocate them. The trauma, the dark triad, they are the shackles that bind me, the chains that imprison me in my own mind.

And so, I watch from the sidelines, as a silent observer in her theater of life. I keep photographs of moments where her existence praises the creator’s artistry. I watch as she moves through the world with elegance and euphoria I can only dream of. I see myself in her smile, in her eyes sparkling with light that seems to illuminate those dark corners of my soul.

Under this façade of normalcy now lies the truth I can no longer deny. You could say I love her with such intensity that it consumes me. I don’t care if she does resonate or not because I have loved long enough to realize that love is individual. Two people can love, but only one can be in love. Love is personal, very much yes, it is. It is the right fodder for existing. So despite her flaws, her imperfections, I would love her still. I don’t care if she’s in the arms of another, I would still love her. Even if she has an unclean tongue, I don't, just let not it lie when it says it loves me. And I’d love her till she loves me, till she dies, and I die with. And that’s not because she sees anything in me, but because she sees me -the broken imperfect soul that I am.

And so, I write these words, a silent concession to that which burns within me. My Elizabeth, my Tessa, I hope someday you will read them, and understand just how broken I was, and how you have helped me find a glimmer of hope in this very dark.

Somewhere in my head, the entirety of this narrative is too much. So, if you, Universe, are reading this, I hope you pull back the hands of the clock for my amends, you still owe me one. For I’ve been your experiment, your attempt, way too long to call in one favor.

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