I Don’t Want To Fight With Anyone Else But You
Let me start by saying that our love isn’t, and will never be, the ideal happily-ever-after story.
Rather, it is a long-winding chapter of fighting for that damned happily ever after. It’s not limited to a clichéd ending.
See, that’s the thing with fictions and fairytales. These saccharine stories forget the fighting part; they choose to highlight the highs and leave out the lows. They don’t tell of the turbulence — the hysterical fighting, the ricocheting curses, the consuming rage, the crippling depression, the agonizing emptiness.
But it’s the parts they leave out that make love come alive.
And it’s these chaotic chapters that lace flesh, blood, and bones into our love. It’s the extreme episodes that animate this intangible emotion and turn it into a solid force that’s strong enough to knock us over.
Ironically, these moments of madness also have the power to rebuild our crumbling relationship from the ground up. We hurl curses and things at each other, yet we know at the back of our minds that the stormshit is but a manifestation of the incinerating passion we feel for each other. A towering inferno that ravages remnants of rationality, yet also makes us realize just how much we’re willing to fight to right the wrongs in our relationship. Sometimes, realizations are borne out of anger.
Just like the time you punched your car’s window to punctuate our heated argument. I was rambling on and on, yet stopped short of saying “die, fucker” when the sound of your clenched fist hitting the glass overpowered my voice. And then we sat in silence for the entire ride. I was shaking in anger, but then I realized I couldn’t keep pushing you against the wall and expecting no retaliation.
I also remember that time when we kept shouting at each other in a crowded restaurant, spilling our drinks and almost breaking the glasses as we kept banging them down the table in our fury. I knew people were watching us, waiting for us to explode and give them a show. I remember pointing the table knife at you amidst a torrential downpour of fuck yous and bullshits.
Countless hurricane moments. And yet we fuck as brutally as we fight.
It’s true what they say — the most passionate love is also the most violent.
There are times when I feel like I hate you so much, yet I also know that I love you like I’ve never loved anyone else before and that I’d be paralyzed in pain if I lose you.
Extremes, opposite ends of the poles, no middle ground. On our good days, we’re the most crazily, euphorically in love couple. On our bad days, we’re a collision of the most turbulent forces of nature.
It can get a little toxic and depressing sometimes, but our love is addicting. Like drugs, we keep coming back for more.
Our love isn’t rainbows and butterflies. It’s the broken glasses on the floor after a fight, the resounding bang of a closing door, the sound of your footsteps walking away, the melancholic breeze on a sleepless night, the tear-stained pillow in my arms.
But this is how we fight for our happily ever after. It’s a constant struggle of making it work, a labyrinthine road of highs and lows. It can be painful, but most of the time, it’s beautiful.
This is our version of love. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.