Love: a Rebellion of Common Sense
by Miran Tsay
Maybe, is the first thing Kana thinks when she sees her.
Brown, wavy hair to the point of being frizzy, snug pink sweater and grey, worn-in jeans. The girl, crouching on her heels. is nodding, rapt with a story her friend is telling across the hall. Her eyes don’t look hazy, the hazy look most kids have when Kana talks to them. By society’s standards, she’s pretty.
Kana feels the little jolt she gets once in a blue moon. When she sees someone and knows they’ll be important, they’ll saunter into her life and take the reins. It’s not a love-at-first-sight jolt; it’s more of an—oh, it's you. An instinctive familiarity.
There’s a little hitch in the girl's smile, the left side of her mouth more upturned, that Kana notices as she gets to know her. Her name is Audrey. Basketball team and massive pancake fan. But only with cold maple syrup. Failing science and into any music with guitar.
There’s an uncanny smoothness that's almost frightening when Kana’s butterflies become normal, and every little thing becomes exciting: from thrift shopping, yet again, to riding the subway, or just walking with Audrey. Mundane, sometimes childish things they start doing together regularly that feel anything but plain.
Ohmygodshe’sgorgeous. One day Kana has to roll her lips in on themselves to prevent herself from saying that out loud. She’s gorgeous. Audrey’s standing against the wall, holding a stack of giant orange pylons and talking to another student whom Kana wishes she knew well enough to join in the conversation. Instead, the gym doors open with a creak and the girls file in. She’s still gorgeous in the awful yellow polyester gym uniform. Kana doesn’t look at Audrey, but her brightness spills over and into Kana’s vision.
Falling in love is a rebellion of common sense. It makes you abandon the lessons taught to you from a young age, the lesson to keep yourself from falling to prevent backlash and pain, to not give away your precious possessions, to not trust strangers and to most definitely not spend your time on something so unreliable. Falling in love is a stupid choice, really.
But Kana, like all other humans, is self-destructive.
Perhaps how Kana is a little touch- starved and has been a little deprived of friendship her whole life contributes to it, but perhaps it’s a little shift in the cosmos that pushes them together. A shift that made their fingers skim together, legs graze on the subway accidentally— until one day, when it’s suddenly intentional.
The sweet, sweet kisses and gentle handholds that turn into sharing clothes and millions of walks along the boulevard. The photos of Audrey laughing that Kana holds in the back of her phone case to glance at before an away track meet. And then Audrey’s there in real-time, cheering her on. The beaming eyes; and hours that just slip away when Kana’s with Audrey. It’s wondrous how compatible they are, how the world gains another level of colour when they’re together, how teasing each other on dismal days tethers her to happiness.
But we can’t have nice things, because they break with time. Gather dust and specks of rust over once vibrant paint. They fall apart without attention.
And what Kana and Audrey have is so pretty, it’s just begging to be destroyed. Like sandcastles at a beach, cakes at parties, snow after it lies like a blanket on the horizon.
Audrey. Audrey is everything to Kana. She is light, she is the sun, but also the bruising rain and fall of a king. She is everything.
It starts off small. Very small. Smaller than a needle’s eye, or a whisper in the dark. It starts with the small shafting that always, eventually, happens to a new toy. Not neglect, or at least not yet, but a preference to see something else, or be with someone else, even if only for a little while.
It starts with movements that become habits instead of true gestures of affection. When a forehead kiss is to smooth over a bad mark, or a debate, or a problem from the exterior. Because Kana isn’t responsible for Audrey’s anxiety, or her terrible work ethic. When the seemingly innocent actions become other representatives, obligations, a custom. When the formal, slow kisses lose their shimmer and the handholding isn’t novel anymore.
It starts when communication comes up static. When Audrey can’t reach her after a particularly terrible game, when Kana’s phone is off because it just is. When they both bite their tongues and swallow their words, choosing instead to pay attention to the cliché movie on the screen instead of each other. And then they’re growing and changing, and that’s all fine. Audrey takes an interest in skateboarding, but Kana doesn’t have time to practise with her. Kana’s invited to all the parties that Audrey can’t stand with her social anxiety, and then their weekends are stolen from each other.
Perhaps it’s more obvious to outsiders, perhaps it’s not. At a party, Kana’s being chatted up. A troublesome-looking boy, all long arms and nicotine breath. And if Audrey’s overbearing, well, Kana would hate that. If Audrey leaves it—well, she can’t. She’s possessive and insecure, like most of us. So she storms up to them, wrapping a hand around Kana and then insists on walking her home; it’s moments like these that Kana loves.
Moments when they’re laughing too hard at how stupid a soap opera is at 2 am, or bowling because it’s a rainy day and Audrey challenges her to bets. When they can scream Disney lyrics or bake Japanese pancakes that always fail, or surprise each other at sporting events and especially when they’re kissing. Kissing in the rain, past midnight on New Year’s, at parties or just when they can.
Audrey is everything. And Kana loves her, full of science procrastination and twirling keys, Sprite and basketball jerseys. Her laugh that can descend to soundless sobs and a smile that’s malicious right after sneaking out.
But love is art. It’s desirable, it adds beauty, it gives us a purpose to stay alive. But it doesn’t keep us alive. A painting can’t sew up our wounds, and a song can’t pay our rent. It’s the same with love. Love can give us a goal, someone to come home to at the end of the day, but it can’t pay for a home or give us the tools to reach our destination.
Love is a luxury.
Kana learns this, as March Break passes with two fights and only one resolution. She becomes well aware love is a luxury; it’s a privilege to be in love with Audrey. Love is an indulgent, unforgiving force that takes and takes and takes.
Someone in love has to be able to give and give and give to withstand the force. Until their well is dry, and even then, they have to keep giving.
Kana knows love hurts. She’s fallen to the ground and into the hole that she’s dug for herself before. She knows the consequences of falling in love with someone who can’t love you back, who is straight and fundamentally can’t make their heart jump or butterflies bloom when that’s all they do to you. Kana knows the sting of Audrey’s yell after a fight, or the cold silence after disagreements even apologies can’t fix.
Solutions feel more like bandaids now.
And the sad thing is that it’s no one’s fault. It’s not Kana’s fault for forgetting the names of Audrey’s friends, and it’s not Audrey’s fault for lashing out in stress, because a relationship is a balance. A balance of giving and taking. It’s supposed to be 50-50, a circus act of letting yourself fall and trusting the other person to catch you. Or letting the other person fall and trusting yourself to catch them.
The curious thing about love and relationships, Kana realizes, as in mid-April they walk silently in the rain instead of dancing, is that a relationship is about a balance, and love is about giving and giving and giving. And in the act of giving, taking instantly happens. Kana can give Audrey kisses, and in return, to restore the balance, Audrey will kiss her back. And so, as Kana gives, she gets, too. Kana wonders if she gives so much in hopes of receiving just as much. How selfish.
But love is selfish. Love is cruel and rough, unrelenting and much more punishing than hate.
Kana realizes that after a particularly bad fight that ends in her yelling at a stranger; a girl she no longer recognizes. She’s fighting with a shell of who Audrey was seven months ago; a shadow, someone she doesn’t know.
Old Audrey wasn’t so rude, or insistent things had to go her way, or so manipulative with her affection. Then again, wasn’t old Kana sweeter. too? She was so willing to hang onto every word Audrey says, go to every basketball practice; everything was a grand adventure.
So maybe they’ve both changed. Maybe they’ve both grown, but not together. Grown apart.
But Kana still loves Audrey. Maybe she’s just conditioned to being in love with Audrey; maybe it’s natural and inherent now, but she is. Kana’s angry. She’s angry at herself, at the whole situation, at Audrey for being so—
She’sgorgeous, Kana’s brain supplements. And it’s true. She’s a beautiful, dangerous stranger. And the stranger is the same girl Kana kissed under the rain, sang karaoke with for hours, tried making pancakes with a total of seventeen times.
And then Kana can’t be angry. The anger deflates like a bubble, leaving her feeling cold and twisted, hollow and completely disgusted. Her face changes. She knows, because so does Audrey’s. Audrey’s eyes unfurrow and her clenched hands come down to her side from afar as tears crowd Kana’s eyes.
They’re watching each other. Watching. Waiting.
And Kana knows Audrey won’t admit she's wrong until later, and Audrey knows Kana is clamming up. They know this is when they’re the most vulnerable, when everything they’ve built up rests in the palm of their hands, but they can’t do anything. There’s an intricate spider crawling and wrapping its web around them. It’s been collecting dust for months now, and it’s preventing Kana from stepping any closer.
This, being the tall, tall wall of residue they never thought would apply to them; their differences that delve; ever-growing obstacles between them; the kind of awful that transcends actions. The emotional bridge they can’t cross anymore; the same one they used to skip across daily and dance on.
And love is selfish. Love makes Kana want to run up to Audrey, and kiss her again, love her, and be with her, but that’s inconsiderate.
It’s a heavy weight to bear, someone being in love with you. Kana knows the burden. She feels the weight of Audrey’s affection on her back, and it’s a miraculous thing for her carry, but she won’t ask Audrey to carry hers. That’s thoughtless and insensitive, when Kana would come with fights and stress and many, many complications.
Love can work with just giving, but not a relationship. Love is giving and giving. But love isn’t the only thing in a relationship.
A relationship is a garden that makes flowers and love bloom, flourishing upwards and crying for the future. So Kana could give Audrey the world, but she can’t build a garden on her own. Not a single bud.
So when Audrey turns around and slams the door, the only thing that Kana feels is the wind hitting her soaked hair, and falling again. Apart this time, instead of in love.
Her heart is beating, and on medical papers, it would say she’s alive. Some people say heartbreak is worse than being dead. Kana thinks that’s being overdramatic. She knows she’s alive during real heartbreak. Because of the ache. The gnawing cramp in place of her heart, the little weight that rests on top of her chest when she breathes, when she smiles, when she cries. It stays there, like an ice block, and will melt, and only melt, with time.
Heartbreak is like love. It’s selfish.
It demands time to be nursed; ice cream and movies and cramming her schedule so Kana doesn’t have time to think about Audrey. It demands putting on a fake smile that drains all her energy so she can keep up some semblance of being normal, even when her heart is literally bleeding out of her chest. More often than not, Kana wonders if other students can see the arteries and veins sticking out of her shirt. Hopefully not.
Heartbreak is a repercussion of falling in love with someone. And if it was easy to love Audrey, the harsh withdrawal from her made up for it. Harsh, as in she can’t see because her eyes are so puffy from crying last night; harsh, as in watching Audrey look at her emotionlessly, and then watching Audrey score the winning basket at the state championships from afar.
And then it’s knowing she’s one step behind; she’s losing because she’s not the one Audrey’s pulling down for a celebratory kiss, with fingers that linger in her hair. When that one song comes on; when Kana hears Audrey’s name and a smile floats to her lips, before she remembers everything. When Kana misses Audrey so bad she thinks that she’ll throw up, or has to trash the pancake mix and run and run and run until she collapses.
Those are the days when the ache is the worst. When Kana feels the most alive, because of the overwhelming, pulsing grip slowly melting the ice block over her chest.
Just when she feels like she’ll never be able to surface, when she’s about to drown and she’s okay with that, Kana feels the weight lessen. Incrementally. The universe has taken mercy on her. Or pity.
Mind you, there are still days Kana feels desperately lonely, even when she’s at the mall or in the midst of her friends. She’s lonely for the one person she can’t have. But then, there are days when she’ll catch herself sifting through recipes without a care in the world, or discovering something new and wanting to keep it to herself.
Maybe Audrey will make amends with her. Maybe they’ll reunite; maybe the mountain of clutter will decline; maybe they’ll be okay in the future.
Or maybe Kana will fall in love with someone else just as devastatingly hard. Maybe she’ll feel the little jolt of her heart again tomorrow.
It’s not like Kana needs that, but it’s a thought. An idea. Just like a dandelion passing in the wind, a sail on the ocean, or a dragon in an adventure story. It’s just there.
The future is the one thing that isn’t selfish, although it’s demanding and needy. It’s open-minded and mysterious. So Kana’s okay with embracing the maybes.
Maybe, Kana thinks sometimes.
Maybe.