Waterfall in the Painting.

“I’m afraid.” She whispered. Her voice trembled from the piercing blue eyes of a man who looked at her with resolute yet at the same time with hesitation.

“I’m afraid of being happy. The kind of happy that makes you so light on the ground that even angels are jealous. That kind of happy which makes you smile like a fool and twirl around because the world has stopped moving and it’s only you and that happiness. That happiness which comes from someone who has no guarantee in staying. I’m afraid of the shadow of happiness once the sun sets on it. I’m afraid of the pain and I’m afraid of the darkness and its emptiness.” Her words ran like a waterfall, a beautiful confession of vulnerability when looked at but destructive with its force when heard. He looked at her and saw a breathtaking beauty and he heard her and felt a trembling awe.
Hanging on her last bit of confession, he wanted to take that dive, and so he held his breath waiting on the edge of her words.
“And because of this fear I push people away before they could make themselves a part of me and then leave a hole in me. I build walls so they don’t come close. I don’t want you to come close. I don’t want my happiness to depend on something ephemeral. We won’t last because love ends too quickly and heartbreak lasts too long.”
And just like how the sun slowly sets to allow the sea to gleam with tears at its departure, her eyes glistened and when she closed them, tears trickled down her red cheeks, momentarily paused at the lips he hoped he would kiss before they finally fell away.

He wanted to hold her close and chase away her fears. He wanted to dry her face with his kisses and tuck that strand of hair behind her ear and look closer into her eyes. He wanted to bring her close to his chest and serenade her without speaking a word. He simply wanted to hold her but her words overwhelmed him with the fear of breaking her by a simple touch. That strong, independent woman who spent the most part of her life fighting her own battles alone was afraid of her own demons. She couldn’t chase them away, not when she was in her own darkness. She couldn’t see them and so she slowly began to listen to them until they finally consumed her. And now she is afraid of the light someone might bring into her life. She is so terrified of losing happiness from love that she would deprive herself of even feeling it.
He continued to look at that magnificent beauty. He could see her soul writhing in pain and he so desperately ached to save her from her own self, but her words crashed on his resolute and dissolved his strength. How could he pick her up when her pieces jabbed into his determination and gradually pierced through his hope? How could he save her when she wouldn’t allow herself to be saved? He didn’t know how to reach out to her.
She wasn’t that simple girl he first met, smiling and laughing with everyone like there was no worry in the world. No, she was that misunderstood piece of art hanging in the room and protected by glass. You can see her from afar and appreciate her beauty, but if you dare to come too close, she became something you can never comprehend, simply because your conceived conception of her from afar does not fit her upon deeper inspection. She was that waterfall in the painting. She was the artist of her own tragedy. She was self-destructive.