song of serendipity

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
If she opened the 6 year old box overflowing with feelings for him, she'd trade love for the moral fabric of her every true and right decision that made up her life. Or would love prove to be the only "right" in this internal conflict?

Submitted: April 01, 2016

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Submitted: April 01, 2016



She feared she'd never have a chance to say more than hello before he said goodbye.


It was like that with them.  Between the hello and impending goodbye there was a storage box overflowing with 6 years of pent up feelings and emotions.   If she didn't let him in, let him know just how she felt, she would forever be imprisoned to unfinished memories - and the many unsaid words inbetween would be her punishment.

How did they let this go on for years with so little said and now, so much to lose?  Over time, he had written songs that seemed to paralleled their feelings and what was happening between them.  But with nothing more than "hello"  how does one even begin to open that box?  In some ways they were both strangers and intimate.  They had shared such intense feelings with each other, across the room, on stage, in fleeting moments when a coy smile escaped and his songs and her poems replaced words.  Was that enough?  No.  Not then, not now, not ever.

And now that he was leaving, it WAS now or never.  Should she risk everything, contradict what she always thought was the moral fabric of her life and open the box?  Or would she continue to believe she was being punished for loving someone she shouldn't and thereby, just accept her tragic fate?

No.  Not then, not now, not ever.

And so it was in the beginning - that first moment fingers touch keys from across the room, eyes to eye bind that she has this overwhelming urge to protect this young stranger.  To the moral complexity she would be challenged, he was all that was pure and good and right.  Before they realized they'd have feelings to control, it was too late.


End of intro chapter. 


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