Eleanor & Park

I don’t think I even breathe when we’re not together, she whispered. Which means, when I see you on Monday morning, it’s been like sixty hours since I’ve taken a breath. That’s probably why I’m so crabby, and why I snap at you. All I do when we’re apart is think about you, and all I do when we’re together is panic. Because every second feels so important. And because I’m so out of control, I can’t help myself. I’m not even mine anymore, I’m yours, and what if you decide that you don’t want me? How could you want me like I want you? He was quiet. He wanted everything she’d just said to be the last thing he heard. He wanted to fall asleep with I want you in his ears.

Whenever he saw Eleanor, he couldn’t think about pulling away. He couldn’t think about anything at all. Except touching her. Except doing whatever he could or had to, to make her happy.

Nothing before you counts, he said. And I can’t even imagine an after.

I don’t know how to say good-bye to you, she said. He smoothed her hair off her face. He’d never seen her so fair. Then don’t. But I have to go.… So go, he said with his hands on her cheeks. But don’t say good-bye. It’s not good-bye.

It’s going to be okay, Park said. She nodded. Right. Because I love you. She laughed. Is that why? It is, actually.

This morning, when she got on the bus, it kind of felt like he was waiting for her. He was holding a comic called Watchmen, and it looked so ugly that Eleanor decided not to bother eavesdropping. Or eavesreading. Whatever. (She liked it best when he read the X-Men, even though she didn’t get everything that was going on there; the X-Men were worse than General Hospital. It took Eleanor a couple weeks to figure out that Scott Summers and Cyclops were the same guy, and she still wasn’t sure what was up with Phoenix.)