I was finally doing it. After fighting with myself over and over, my conscience always beating me down in the end, I was breaking it off at last. I mauled the idea in my head as I drove to her house, my girl’s house. Baby, sweetie, sexy, all seemed so immature a name once the decision was finalized.

            I paused at an intersection when a strange feeling passed over me. A driver honked behind me for hesitating too long. Pressing down on the gas pedal a little too hard, I thought back to that first day, when we met.

            I’ll be honest; I was terrified for my sanity when we first met on the Fine Arts bus. She was all five foot nothing with a wild mane of twirling brown hair. Her tiny frame was overloaded with an abundance of luggage, I mean, we were only staying for the competition tomorrow, she didn’t need all of that. My only female acquaintance at the time squealed with glee when she saw her. I didn’t understand until now where her delight came from seeing that wild, spritely girl.

            By the end of the trip, we had somehow become friends without me killing myself. This girl, she was all fury and fire and sweetness and gentle. Her heart is for everyone but never opens to anyone. Boundless energy and brimming with joy while hiding a well of sorrow. She’s a sponge for pain, taking others and placing it on herself.

            Our friendship blossomed quickly, her unconditional love healing my scarred heart and drawing me out of my shell. I confided to her like no one else. We began dating only a few months after meeting, her newfound commitment to the Lord making her available to me at last. She was amazing. Her love for the world grew as our relationship grew.

            The sound of my hand rapping on her door snapped me back to reality, and the task at hand. Breaking up, splitting, separating; they all mean the same thing, taking something whole and dividing it into two.

            Sadly, as my soon to be former girl will tell you, whole things don’t often divide without losing pieces. Even the small ones are significant and everyone will try to fill those gaps with many things that will never fit the same way as the original whole.

            She invites me in, a smile like the sun and moon and rain all at once radiates her face. We settle on her old, broken couch, silent and expecting for the time being. My eyes wander to her array of pictures on her wall and desk. Prom after Prom, parties, and just for fun pictures stare back at me, mirroring her quiet anxiety.

            I remember the hundreds of times I sat on this couch with her, broken in my arms and me, broken in hers. She tore down every wall I built, pulled away the mask I hid behind, stripped me bare until all you saw was my raw emotion, flaws and faults. And then, with a touch of love and insanity, claimed me beautiful, worthy of anything and everything. She embraced my shortcomings while accepting when I ran from hers.

            All the beauty in the world I could use to describe the many ways I’ve felt for her. She graced my life like an angel, blessing me with her affection.

            I thought of just last week, our trip to a big chain retailer and two little plastic rings. We bought them on a whim, her desire for the rich and fancy was limited and she enjoyed the smallest of things. I had stuck mine in my pocket, forgetting its existence. She had strung hers on her neck, for it was too big for her tiny fingers.