For those who are interested in the prompt, here is the link.
[This is a nonfiction entry!]
Maybe he never looked like much to anyone else – which isn’t kind of me to say, but that’s what he insists – but he looks like the world to me.
When we first met, we were both scared little 13-year-old kids out at the lunch tables on a junior high campus in a small town filled with worries that were of little consequence to us or anyone else in the world. He had brown curls that sprung out in his otherwise nest-like hair and his skinny jeans were so tight that I could see every straight and curve of his leg without having to imagine anything. He wore black and I wore blue.
Somewhere along the way, I realized that I wanted to be noticed by him. Apparently, he had the same realization.
We dated for a week and then broke up.
A year later, we tried again.
A month after that, I thought myself in love.
Six months after, I knew that I was in love.
Three years later, everything started shifting and we were growing and changing at different paces, as young kids in high school do. He wanted one thing and I wanted another, but we found our way through it along separated paths to meet at the end together.
Seven years later, he proposed; I accepted.
That’s just a bit about him and us and how we came to be. It seems typical, just like any other love story that ever was. There are probably hundreds or even thousands or millions of other couples with more interesting backstories than us, but if I gave it to you in full detail, you’d fall in love with the idea of us as much as we have. However, my job isn’t to tell you how; it’s to tell you why.
As I said, he doesn’t believe that anyone sees him as anything other than ordinary, but to me, he’s so much more: he’s the sunshine after a storm and the rain after a drought. In every dry-spell of writing I’ve ever had, he came in with floods of encouragement and patience through every rant about my art in order to help me realize the potential that my story and I still had within us. I’ve spent hours discussing character development, possible plot twists, title decisions, story setting, etc. with him. I’ve cried to him when I began to question whether or not my story was original enough to ever be published for others to read. I wrote and edited with him quietly sitting next to me – him doing his own thing and me doing mine while just being in each other’s company. I celebrated with him after finishing the first draft of my novel.
He is the first person that I wanted to tell my concerns and breakthroughs to.
Outward appearances don’t do a person justice. We aren’t the shell that our souls dwell in, but his shell became the most beautiful just by housing the heart and mind of the person that I fell in love with. I never looked at him and thought “wow, he’d make a great character!” Instead, it was the subtly of his contributions in my novel as my muse that speak volumes of how much he affects me.
Muse: a source of inspiration; especially : a guiding genius (Merriam-Webster Dictionary, online).
He is my muse. He is the reason that I continue when I no longer want to. He is my guide through writing love and longing and adventure and pain. He is my world.