Best Kind of Broken

59 Pixie

I’m packing. I’m crying. I’m hoping Levi will knock on my door and say something, anything. I’m packing.

I know he won’t do it, just like I know I won’t do it.

And I don’t even really know why I’m crying, other than I feel like I’m never going to see Levi again. Which is ridiculous. I’ll see him again.

I press a hand to my chest, where a sharp ache throbs with each of my heartbeats. Loving someone and not being with them hurts.

Thunder grumbles in the distance.

I look at the wall that separates my bedroom from Levi’s. Did I make the right decision?

The throbbing in my chest continues and I have to take a deep breath to keep more tears from falling.

I blink. I swallow. I’m fine.

I look around my room. Boxes everywhere. Paint stains on my headboard. Canvases of Charity in the window. More boxes.

Something green peeks out from beneath one of the dusty boxes and I bend to retrieve it. It’s the flag from our capture the flag game last summer. I run the old faded material through my hands and bite my lip.

Time.

It just goes.

And now I have to go with it.

This is the beginning of my future. Another tear rolls down my face and I swipe at it angrily as I shove the flag into my suitcase.

It’s better this way. It really is. It’s safer.

I yank off the painting shirt I have on and start to change into a clean tank top, but when I catch my reflection in my bedroom mirror, I pause.

I run a finger along my scar, tracing its jagged pattern with my eyes as the damaged-yet-healed skin meets my fingertips.

It’s a best friend and a place to call home. It’s a lesson learned and a reminder that life is fragile. It’s my first taste of death and a second chance at life.

It’s everything I never want to forget. And it’s beautiful.

I’m glad I shared it with Levi.

I’ve made my decision and sure, my heart is broken, but it’s the good kind of broken. The kind that leaves you branded, so you never forget, and heals over time, so you can see just how far you’ve come.

It’s the best kind of broken.

I touch my scar again.

Like me.