(Fall)ing in Love

By Allison Elizabeth

Graphic by Naliyah Grant

I’ve got a habit of dropping my porcelain doll. It’s not on purpose. Why would I do that on purpose? I don’t like to see the cracks in her face and her missing fingers. I just shake with excitement whenever I get to hold her, and I lose my grip. The worst part is, I’m so caught up in the excitement that I don’t even realize she’s on the ground until the glass goes into my foot. Then I have to glue her face back together, and wrap my feet with bandages. I just want to be happy with her. I shouldn’t have to work to constantly mend us. I don’t think I should have to work to do anything. That’s not really how life works, though. Everything has steps. Everything requires patience. Everything requires you to think of something in a new way. I should start by thinking of a new way to hold her close to me. I don’t have to force us to work, I just need to work to figure out how we go together. She looks just like me. It shouldn’t be that hard to figure myself out. 

There is a beautiful girl painted with freckles and adorned with red curls that lives in my thoughts day and night. I lost all joy in eating cakes, taking baths, and wearing dresses. None of them are her. 

We are getting coffee. Well, I am getting coffee. A pumpkin spice latte. She doesn’t drink coffee. I don’t need her to drink coffee. There’s just been a lot on my mind. I want to tell her because these feelings only come around when she’s there. I don’t know how I can quite explain it to you, reader, but it does pertain to my inability to hold my doll. 

She walks in through the door. I spill a little bit of my coffee on my shirt. I want to cry. She kisses my cheek, “hello, cutie.” Whenever she speaks to me I wonder how my life could possibly be real. I am floating on a star through space with her hand in mine. How am I ever going to be able to tell her what is on my mind? We may lose our path, our light may fade, she might let go of my hand. Why would she let go of my hand? This is about me. My lack of coordination. 

“Okay, so.” I begin, but don’t finish. I just blink and stare in her eyes. They’re brown. Her pupils blend in with them nicely. I wish I could keep them in a jar. Is that weird? Yes. How long have I been staring at her eyes? I wait for her to respond.

She doesn’t.

She is still looking at me. 

“Sorry I am doing this to you.” I break our eye contact.

“Do you like your latte?” 

I look at her again. I take a sip. “It’s honestly not that good, but I still like it.”

She brushes my hair behind my ear. “That’s good.”

I sigh. I stare at the orange concoction in my glass. It was $7. I don’t even regret buying it even though it’s a 4/10. I’m glad it gave us something to talk about.

“I’m-” I take a long, obvious, calming breath. “I’m just glad you are here.”

That’s not what I was planning to say. I honestly can’t remember what I wanted to say anymore. My hands are still shaking. She has not left me. I don’t think I will ever get them to stop. I just need to remember they will. I’ll put a lid on my coffee. I’ll put my porcelain doll on my shelf. 

I will be okay.