There are two types of people in this world: The Fallen and The Floating. An unhealthy dose of normality is injected into your bloodstream as a baby; the blood that pumps through your heart matches your father's collar—too good to know any better. At the age of six, you knew no worse pain than that of a scraped knee or a dead goldfish. In a world full of pain and misfortune, your father died at the age of eighty-four, and at ninety, your mother followed. A quiet departure: your father from a blood clot at work, your mother of old age while sleeping. When you fall asleep at night, you miss them, but not enough to pay them with waking hours; it was their time—no need to mourn the inevitable.
When you hear stories of the girl in your high school class, you shudder, as the thorns and thistles she called a childhood leave scratches in your memory and scars on your heart. She is a happy woman, and although you try, you'll never understand why. That's why you married her—to give the Fallen what they never had. Yet she has treasures that you could never possess. In a crimson box underneath the stairs sits saturated memories. She can recall specific dates by smelling her favorite candle. Every year, your wife's friends gawk at the Christmas gift exchange as you watch her unwrap yet another clean linen candle. You and her friends will never understand why she prefers the scent of clean linen over any other fragrance.
You and your wife make a disgusting amount of money, and yet she still clips coupons. Even though she is thirty years old, she still makes collages out of old magazines. She loves sixties music but knows absolutely nothing about it. She's watched every single Harry Potter movie a hundred times, and yet she can't fall asleep at night unless they're playing. She could buy anything in the world for herself but would rather make all of her own things. To this day, she has only ever purchased new items from the store to give to local organizations. She won't eat meatloaf—in fact, she hates it—but she makes the best meatloaf you've ever had every year on the same day. You will never understand why, in the middle of June, she buys a plane ticket to Texas and never goes. Sometimes she sits on the edge of her bed with a torn-up baby photo in her hand and just cries. You don't ask her why she does these things because if she knew, she would probably stop doing them.
When she cries, you don't ask why because you two fell in love at an old theater, watching gory horror films over a shared love of seltzer water. You proposed to her a year later in that same theater, celebrating your newfound love. She gives you beautiful poetry every Valentine’s Day and sings to you for every birthday; like some sort of rare bird, she is a lovely one. You love her more than life itself, and even though you wonder, you'll never wander. When she cries, you don't ask why; you simply hold her in your arms and say, "I love you!"
But in the corners of your mind, shadows linger, whispering secrets of the past. You remember the days when laughter was a foreign sound, when the walls of your childhood home echoed with silence instead of joy. Each holiday passed with a veil of muted colors, and even the brightest decorations seemed to dim under the weight of memories that lingered like smoke in the air. You learned to navigate the world with a stoic face, hiding the broken pieces that lay beneath the surface, knowing that to be the Fallen was to carry an invisible burden that few could see.
You look at her as she dances through the mundane, a light in the chaos of everyday life. Her laughter rings like wind chimes, delicate yet unyielding, and you often wonder how she learned to float above the debris of her childhood. You catch glimpses of her joy in small moments—a sunbeam spilling through the window or the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles—and for a heartbeat, the scars on your heart fade, replaced by a warmth that blooms in her presence. It is a strange contrast, watching the Floating glide effortlessly while you remain anchored to the depths of your own sorrow. You find solace in her happiness, even if it makes your own shadows feel heavier.
Yet, in those quiet moments when night falls and the world slows, you sometimes catch her gaze wandering beyond the horizon, lost in thoughts you cannot reach. You wish you could dive into her memories, understand the ache that hides behind her vibrant smile, but you know better than to pry. You let her have her secrets, knowing that the thorns of your past have made you cautious and fragile. So, you become the silent sentinel, guarding her heart while your own remains a battleground. When she sits at the edge of the bed, you offer your hand, a lifeline in the tumult, and remind her that love, in all its messy glory, is the greatest treasure of all.
This is an original short story, please do not steal. Thank you for enjoying my blog. If you have any pointers or anything you would like to know about the post please feel free to comment below.
