I’m sitting in the center of a seesaw, about to get yelled at by whoever’s patrolling recess.
I’ve already had my turn to experience the rush of the high and the anticipation of the low, but my memory is fleeting.
No matter how many times I believe there’s room for one more on the green, sun-baked metal, I’m always wrong in the authoritative eyes of the mature. They don’t remember what it was like, sitting in the center, maintaining the balance of my small world with my small weight.
Third time’s a charm.
I’m sitting in the center of the seesaw, and I look up. I see her. She’s at the highest of altitudes, and she’s so far away. She’s percentages that feel unattainable, and she’s the pit in my stomach, and she’s everything I’ve looked up to, which I realize as I look up at her now.
I spin around to the other side of the seesaw, and I look at you. You’re so much closer than the aloof goddess who sits on her highest horse behind me. But you’re still facing her, and I should probably watch my words. You’re so close to me, and you’re so familiar, and you’re everything I love and everything I hate. You’re my best friend and my favorite pastime. The past sixteen years of knowing you have been better than any interaction I’ve had with her.
Because she could stab me in the back at any second. I have zero trust in her, yet she has all her faith in me. She’s diplomas and gowns and champagne. I’d rather keep facing you.
Third time’s a charm.
Because you’re right here. You’re the beginning, you’re my comfort zone, and you’re my memories; you’re the architect of everything I’ve built.
In the haze of obsessive adoration, I see a shift in your demeanor.
In one devastating, cathartic motion, you push off the ground.
And everything goes tumbling down.
I’m losing my balance as the world turns upside down. I topple into the wood chips. I look up, and you’re so far away, fading into the cerulean sky. You’ve become the sun to my humble earth, and it hurts to look into your eyes, so I turn away.
When did she get so close?
The heaven-adjacent, otherworldly being who once floated atop the clouds is staring at me. She’s no longer distant. I thought I had my eye on her, but she still managed to creep up on me.
The weight of her—my future—has created an emphasized slant on the seesaw; I feel my skin chafing against the green, sun-baked metal, the only thing that hasn’t changed, as I slide into her unknown, terrifying embrace.
I was once at the center of the seesaw, the two bookends of my mere existence sitting equidistant from my shuddering body.
Suddenly, I’m sliding straight into the future, leaving my beloved past self hanging in the gap.
Third time’s a charm.
