"half-meanings" by @beyondd-mars aka meeee “Saying sorry,” she says—slowly, as if she is thinking very hard about something—, “is supposed to make everything better again.” “But it doesn’t,” he answers. He reaches out to take her hand. She lets him. “It smooths things over, sure. But it’s an empty word with an empty half-meaning.” She frowns, looking up at his eyes: so deep and blue she often thinks she could drown in them. “What’s a half-meaning?” “A half-meaning,” he explains, and she appreciates how he’s not treating her like a child so, so much, “is when the meaning of a word doesn’t match the dictionary definition. Like ‘sorry’. What if you said it in a mean way? Or in the voice you use when you talk to dogs? But a word like…” he looks around the room, searching for an example. “Like this chair. No matter how you say it, chair will always be chair.” “Oh,” she says. She thinks hard for a moment. This is hard for her to understand. Not because she is stupid, but because her brain works in a very logical manner. She doesn’t do well with metaphors. “What does that have to do with apologizing?” “Sorry makes things better,” he says gently, “when you say it with a whole-meaning. That,” he adds before she can ask, “means when you say a word exactly how it’s supposed to be said. For sorry, it only works if you really mean it. If you don’t mean it, and you say it anyway, it’s only a half-meaning. And most people don’t understand about half-meanings.” She doesn’t know why, but she feels the need to defend herself. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.” “Yes, you do,” he tells her, but not in a mean way. Not like he’s saying she’s dumb. He seems like he really wants to help her understand. “Almost everyone does. And the people who don’t, they deserve everything in the world and more. Because it takes a lot of courage”—he taps her chest—“to not tell others things that aren’t true.” “Do I have courage?” she asks. She counts the freckles on his nose and comes to a verdict: 36. She likes that number. It’s six, which is already her favorite number, but squared. So really, it’s six sixes. Her favorite number of favorite numbers. “I don’t know,” he says. “Only you know that.” She thinks. “I think I do. In some things. Not always the things that count, but some things.” He smiles, and he looks so perfectly happy that she wants to freeze this moment and put it in a jar on her bedside table. “That’s good. I think I’m the same way.” She puts her head on his chest, so she doesn’t see his expression, but she’s already memorized every detail of his smile. “I understand now.” “Me, too,” he says. “Me, too.” -- hi! i wrote this ridiculously short thing because my mom claims i always sound sarcastic when i say sorry haha not sure how i feel about it tbh but whatevs open to feedback always! xx original work by me :) photos from p!n
