Not all is fair in love and war. In war, a charismatic leader can scream “Never give up!” and inspire his men to spend their last breaths dying for a cause that may or may not be worth it. Love isn’t like that.
When you’re in love, there’s no leader there to tell you to never give up, because you don’t need one. You keep fighting because you’re afraid that if you stop, for just one moment, you might just bleed out. It’s the fighting that keeps you alive. I knew the truth in that the moment I saw her with him.
She had been one of those girls to me. That girl that you remember the very moment you first laid eyes on her and thought: “She’ll never know I exist, but that’s alright, because I could never deserve that.” The kind of girl that one day lets you in and suddenly you find yourself in her inner circle, and you covet the smiles and whispered secrets. The kind of girl that you know, way deep down in the roots of your being that if you don’t do everything you can to win her heart, you’ll regret it. Losing is fine. Not fighting… not fighting is lethal.
But not quite as lethal as the moment I saw her with him. Not quite lethal as the moment I realized that they were good together—that he was good to her, good for her. Not quite as lethal as the moment when that realization hit me: they may just make it.
And now I’m standing at their wedding. Now I’m at the table with the other groomsmen and bridesmaids. Now I’m toasting their happiness. Now I’m a walking corpse. Love again? How could I? Love is not a general with an endless supply of troops. Love is a Private, lying in his own lifeblood, stuck with the choice of getting up and trying to find healing or just surrendering to the inevitable.
As I watched him put the ring on her hand, I surrendered, because I knew that I couldn’t fight anymore. The war was long over. There wasn’t anything left to bleed out.
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