I once told them that if they divorced, I would no longer believe in love. I was sixteen and impressionable. Now, I’m twenty-one and, yes, still impressionable, but less so than before. Now, I know that love itself isn’t so easy to believe in. I spent years thinking that people who’ve made the decision to get married are fucking idiots, and many times I still think so. It’s easy to be cynical when you’ve never been given a reason otherwise.
It probably goes without saying, but I’ve never loved anyone. At least not romantically. There were moments when I thought I had, but when you have to think about it the answers are obvious. It makes me ache thinking about the day it might happen because I know it won’t be easy. It won’t be simple. It’ll be frightening and fragile under the weight of my caution and insecurities.
If only I could tell them now, that if they divorced, I would believe in courage. I would believe in individuality. I would believe in an entirely new form of love. A love of family, of oneself. A love that’s caring, daring, and brave. The one form of love that truly matters above all things.
Instead, I have to watch them destroy each other and everyone in their wake. Their words, disappointments, bitterness, or cruelty pick apart the world and destroys its inhabitants. It’s unbearably sad to see darkness form union with cowardice and have no way of stopping it.
I guess all I can do is learn from it.