She told me she loved me, and neither of us knew what it meant.
Love meant...
Love meant she texted me “good morning” when she woke up at six o’clock every day, even though she knew I would sleep ’till noon.
Love meant we held hands, and later I could still feel the ghosts of her fingers interlaced in mine... after I pulled away, because people were staring.
Staring at the two girls holding hands.
Love meant danger, and I am not a thrillseeker. I still can’t ride rollercoasters and I hid during thunderstorms until I was twelve, but she was a storm chaser. She sang like everyone was listening and danced like everyone was watching (and they were). Occasionally I wondered if someone like her would be better off with someone less like me.
Love meant her promise to protect me from what we both knew she couldn’t: from people who stared and whispered. From people who preached love and practiced hate. People who didn’t understand what love meant when it didn’t fit their own hardwired interpretation.
Love meant...
Love meant “we need to talk.¨ Love meant “I’m sorry” and “I can’t do this anymore.¨
Love means the hole in my chest a year later.