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I’M IN AN endless field filled with red poppies. The poppies reach waist-high on single
green stalks and are so red they seem to bleed color. In the distance I see one Olly, and
then two, and then multiple Ollys marching toward me. They’re wearing gas masks and
holding handcuffs and crushing the poppies under black-booted feet as they march
toward me, silent and determined.
The dream doesn’t leave me. I drift through the day awake but dreaming, trying not to
think of Olly. I try not to think of seeing him for the first time. How he seemed like he
was from another planet. I try not to think about Bundt cakes and headstands and kisses
and velvet sand. How second and third and fourth kisses are just as amazing as first ones.
I try not to think about him moving inside me and us moving together. I try not to think
of him because if I do, I’ll have to think about how connected to him and the world I was
just a few days go.
I’ll have to think of all the hope I had. Of how I fooled myself into thinking that I was a
miracle. Of how the world I wanted to be a part of so badly didn’t want me back.
I have to let Olly go. I’ve learned my lesson. Love can kill you and I’d rather be alive
than out there living.
I once told Olly that I knew my own heart better than I knew anything else, and it’s still
true. I know the places in my heart, but the names have all changed.