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The Boy Who Had Dyslexia

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I loved a boy who had dyslexia. Ours was a walk on broken tiles, with foggy windows and twisted wings. He was my everything. For the first time in my life, somebody knew all my secrets. The good, the bad, and the ugly. He accepted every one and gave me his in return. I treasured them like one would cherish pirate booty or, better yet, jewels brought into existence by Aladdin's lamp. I treasured them like they were mine because he was- or was it the other way around- and I had never belonged to someone, not like this. I had never had anybody want me so much that they were willing to endure the insanity I would surely bring, that they were willing to kiss away every tear and hug away every hurt. And for a minute, the hole in my heart was filled. I was whole. And I would have given the world for him. All of it.

I loved a boy who had dyslexia. Words were never a problem. Somehow, I understood. Somehow, he understood me. Somehow his grasp, interpretation, and communication of the English language was even more beautiful than one could imagine. His grasp, interpretation, and communication of my heart was indescribably perfect. Somehow he made dyslexia beautiful. He taught me how to catch the stars in both of my hands. That people just think things are out of their reach, when, really, anything is possible. He saw the very best in people, in everybody. He questioned their motives, not their actions. He taught me things I didn't even know needed learning, things I didn't know I would love learning.

I loved a boy who had dyslexia. And I had once thought my heart was irreversibly destructed, tattered, and shattered in millions of pieces that could never be gathered or found, ground into the dust of the earth while my pulse just kept on beating, but I learned that your heart can never be as broken as the second time around, the second time you willingly step out of your comfort zone, the second time you betray your own body, your own self, your own mind, your own soul. You defy gravity, thinking this time flying without a parachute only means you're taking a leap of faith and you'll end up landing in a bed of roses and petunias. I learned that it only gets worse with each heartbreak consecutively. And if it doesn't hurt when he's gone, then you're either numb or you never loved him. I learned that it's almost impossible to not care, simply, because I loved him.

I loved a boy who had dyslexia. We were both broken, and I was trying to fix him, but I didn't realize that I was closer to destruction than he was. I didn't realize that if I didn't let go and forget the past, I would lose the greatest treasure I'd possibly ever have. I didn't realize that my trust issues were so bad and that it wasn't him, it was me, and if I didn't stop associating every mistake with the men in my past, I would lose the person I wanted to have in the future.

I loved a boy who had dyslexia. And I didn't know it was possible to ever feel safe with a guy who wasn't my brother, but it was. Anything is possible, remember?

I loved a boy who had dyslexia. I don't know why they call it a learning disability or a reading problem because he knew more than me. He was so passionate every time he opened his mouth and said "Did you know?" And I didn't. I didn't know. He knew. He taught me things I didn't know, things he had learned, things he had read. And I didn't know that love could last forever in real life. And I didn't know he could read my heart with his eyes shut.

I loved a boy who had dyslexia. And the boy with dyslexia loved me back.

I loved a boy who had dyslexia. And losing him was my dyslexic moment.




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