A Collection of Short Stories

Words I’ve written in the past year

1

Sitting on the rooftop, they are the subject of a painting on the canvas of the night sky. His hand is gently fitted into hers, and they are wrapped up in their favorite red blanket, music from her phone floating quietly beneath their hushed conversation. They gaze out into the city, the flickering lights dotting the skyline like fireflies. Up here, the world does not seem so big.

Yet, as she glances up at the sky, pitted against the infinite universe above her, it occurs to her how small she really is. Reminders manifest themselves everywhere: the stars she can cover with her hand but can’t quite grab; the limitless horizon that stretches in every direction when she can only see in front of her; the single moon present in everybody’s sky while she can only be seen in one place at a time.

Damn, this world is big.

As the song changes, her mind settles back down to Earth. He places his arm around her, letting her head drift onto his shoulder. It is warm and comfortable and loving here, and she forgets how small she felt a moment earlier. The city lights gleam in front of them like distant spotlights, and with him, she is not afraid to step on stage. Maybe love is big enough to make the world seem small.

In the distance, an airplane breaks through the dark clouds and soars into the sky. She imagines being an astronaut and climbing even further in the air until they’ve pierced the atmosphere. It must be strange viewing Earth from space: to feel so big, watching humanity from above, yet feeling so small against the boundless universe.

On that rooftop, she is in her own little spaceship, feeling both big and small, scared but content. Her head nestled into his shoulder, bundled in their red blanket, painted into the sky…

She does not need to be anywhere else but here.

2

Anyone who knew them would agree: they lived in their own little universe. From their silent nods and giggles to the jokes they laughed out loud at while everyone else looked at them in confusion, there was something unbreakable between them. Maybe it could be described as true love, but they didn’t need to define it. In their universe, the feeling lived in both of their hearts. They knew it would never leave, and that was enough.

Until the place where they created that universe became the place it was destroyed.

It is here, at his doorstep, tears running down both their faces, that they embrace for the last time before he leaves. The same place where two years ago she rang his doorbell, and their eyes met for the first time. He still remembers the way the restless thoughts in his mind quieted completely, like a wave crashing into the shore, as if she was the answer to every question his mind would ever pose. And she still remembers how she couldn’t look away, because it was the first time she felt seen — not just noticed, but seen, deeper than her skin. There was something in his eyes that made her forget how to worry.

But his doorstep feels quieter now, pulsing not with the vibrant energy of new love but with the tension of separation. Goodbye hangs from the tips of their tongues like a sandbag until finally the weight is too much, and they must release the word into the air, sealing their future. As they pull away from each other — two magnets pulling themselves apart — they watch as the universe they built together fades, knowing full well that the next time they meet, everything will be different. They hope to be one of the lucky ones; that despite the missed calls and angry voicemails, the distance and the heartbreak, no matter how close they get to giving up because being alone is easier than being apart, they will be one of the lucky ones who make it through. .

Secretly, Fate laughs at their heartache. He knows, with the certainty only Love allows, that the next time their eyes meet, they will step into that universe once more. Maybe they will look different or feel different, smell different or sound different, but the waves will still crash into his shore and she will still forget how to worry.

Because Love, in its fickle glory, changes, but never disappears. No matter the wreckage between them.

3

To the world and all of its questions —

No.

I haven’t found all of your answers yet.

I haven’t figured out what it means to be truly happy,

what it means to face fear,

how to change.

There are a lot of questions you keep asking

that I don’t have the answers to yet.

But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop looking.

Sure,

right now,

I may be pretty far off from correct,

but I know the longer I look,

the harder I look,

the closer I’ll be to landing there.

So, World,

lead me there.

I know the answers don’t lie in the sunlight,

so instead,

show me your darkest recesses,

your blind spots,

your too-close-to-call moments,

your fate-strung spiderwebs.

I want to experience them all.

Because the darkness is where your answers hide.

I promise,

I will find them,

so long as I never stop looking.

4

He would never say this to her, but his daughter is his everything. She is the reason he works long nights and weekends, why he eats lunch at his desk most days so he can come home earlier to see her. Even when she hadn’t been conceived yet, when she was still just an idea, she motivated him to move to America — it is all for her. And she is grateful for that.

But that does not negate the things he says.

With all that he does for her, he expects her to be a perfect daughter. But she had not known anything but the life given to her. So, though she tries to be good, sometimes, she is spoiled, disrespectful, or just… imperfect. And in these times, when she doesn’t fit his mold quite right, he gets angry. He blows up, like an erupting volcano, spewing awful, hurtful words at her. She is ungrateful, she is irresponsible, she is undeserving, she is incorrect, she is not enough. He swims in this undercurrent of disappointment in which she has already drowned.

She still loves her father. The things he does for her — texting her good luck when she has a test, making smoothies when her friends are over, working late for the fifth day in a row — show an unconditional love she recognizes. But even as an adult, those words and that anger stick with her. They always would.

So there is a perpetual distance between them — a rift he can never quite close, regardless of what he says. Their silences are punctuated by the things they are too far apart to say to each other. Resent lives on the tip of her tongue, constantly present, but never evolving into words. Unspoken apologies reside in his heart, tucked away beneath pride, refusing to admit regret. To him, giving her everything should mean everything to her.

There is something beautifully tragic in the way love tangles caring with expectation. It is what makes love a risk. It is why love both breaks and mends, cuts and stitches, shatters and rebuilds. Love, in any form, is never absolute.

And for them, it never would be.