Pith

Relationships come and relationships go. At the beginning, they’re exhilarating, exciting, electrifying. They’re texts returned instantly, dinners prepared laboriously, glances stolen and chances taken. They’re a hand resting on a table in a café while another hand works up the courage to lay down next to it.

They’re a careful change from small talk to real talk — a slow unravelling of shiny, slick skin to reveal fragile pith. The shield relinquished, the armour dropped; the anticipation of wondering if you’ll allow yourself to be consumed.

At first, the thought of giving away pieces of you will be terrifying, unimaginable. You’ve given someone pieces of you before, believing it was a two-way trade. You’ve been left empty-handed, while the other left with hands overflowing.

When relationships end, they’re uncomfortable, uncertain, unsettling. They’re missed calls, forgotten dinner plans, glances unseen and chances wasted. They’re a hand resting on a table in a café while another hand works up the courage to pull away.

They’re a subtle shift from real talk to small talk; a slow rebuilding of wary, watchful walls to guard cautious hearts. The bridges burned, the doors closed; the resolute silence of vowing to protect yourself.

For a while, they’ll stay this way — perfect surfaces and superficial smoothness. Then, you’ll meet someone who makes you want to pick away at your pith. Someone who unravels their shiny, slick skin with you and smiles while it falls to the floor.

You’ll meet someone who consumes you and allows you to consume them in return, believing it’s a two-way trade. It will be a two-way trade, though you might not believe it at first.

You might push them away. You might pretend you prefer yourself undisturbed, even though you were built to be unravelled. They will understand, because they’ve done this too. They’ll quell your mistrust with honesty and quench your doubt with kindness. They will let you unravel: slowly, safely.

Over time, you will give them pieces. You’ll tell them funny stories, past problems, dark secrets. You’ll study the curve of their chest, the lilt of their laugh, the hum of their heartbeat when it’s pressed next to your ear. You’ll learn their mother’s name, their favourite food, the song they love to play on repeat when they’ve had a few too many beers.

You’ll smile when their name lights up your phone screen. You’ll giggle to yourself quietly when they fall asleep first and snore violently at the ceiling. You’ll blush when their fingers find yours as you walk down the street under the cold glow of winter skies. You will fall into a routine and you will revel in how familiar it becomes — how at home you feel with your shiny, slick skin at your feet.

Then, by circumstance, they will leave. The routine will go, but the rest will remain. You will still smile when their name lights up your phone screen. You will still hear the hum of their heartbeat. You will still remember how it felt to shed your shiny, slick skin and be met with a smile.