A Pretty Disaster

A Pretty Disaster. She fell in love with him on a Monday morning that smelled of burnt toast and old regrets. His eyes were galaxies she’d not even fantasized about exploring—not because she didn’t want to, but because she knew if she got lost in them, she wouldn’t return.

He was a careless beauty. Like broken stained glass reflecting sunlight — harmful, but lovely.

They loved recklessly. Like the fireflies are caught in a jar, flashing against the inevitable. She taught him to dance with bare feet on the rim of grief. He also taught her how to kiss as if you were saying goodbye and you hadn’t even said hello.

They wrote poetry in steamed mirrors and carved vows in their hands’ skin. “Forever,” he’d whispered once, his face caught in her hair, in a motel room with wallpaper that pouted like secrets. She didn’t believe in forever, but she believed in how his voice would tremble when he said it.

What nobody tells you is that soulmates can be lessons, not destinations.

She left on a Thursday—rain behind the windshield, mascara streaked across her face, and a ring in the glovebox that never sat quite right. He didn't chase her. That was their last act of love: releasing without looking back.

Years later, she bumped into him again at a bookstore. He was laughing with a woman who had sunlight in her smile. He looked happy. Not the with-her happy, wild, and collapsing, but a quiet kind, like still water.

She smiled at the thought of their chaos. Some loves were never meant to last. Some are only ever destined to burn, but hot enough to cast shadows.

They were never going to be perpetual. They were designed to be unforgettable.

A pretty disaster.