If he could have painted her commitment on a see-through canvas, when she was willing to give it all, he would have seen the brightness in the colors of her heart. Her world was actually colorful back then. He would have been able to capture her hands mirroring each other as she begged and pleaded, "please don't hurt me again." And the only time he would have seen her hands separate would have been when she believed his promises and she held out her left hand to reach for them, but they were never to be. The other hand reached out to knock on his door; that door that he kept double-locked for such a long time, with no door knob, so that no one would try to open it; "not even me" she'd whisper.
"Not even me?" as if there was something special about her for whom he would have made an exception.
Oh, how tired she grew of keeping her hands out like that, for empty promises and for an invisible door knob. She never thought that emptiness could be so heavy and invisibility so blinding.
Who would have known that asking to be loved right could feel so miserable? Maybe it was because she never thought that such a question should be asked when one truly loves another. But she did anyway. "How humiliating!" she'd think. But her commitment was such, that she would put aside even her stubborn pride.
She was so exhausted. And right when she couldn't keep her hands out anymore; right when her shoulders had no more space to be loaded with more pain; right when her hands waned from the soreness of waiting for such a long time...that's when he decided to reach out.
Let us not forget her door that would have been painted on the corner of that canvas. Ah! Yes, the door! Or would he even have to have painted a door if it was wide open? That door that she had kept, not just double-locked, but under surveillance and with an alarm system. Yet, there it was: wide open for him. Paint away! She handed him keys and security codes. He never stopped to think how much trust that required. He never had to use the key or codes; she kept the door wide open for him for a very long time. One must not be surprised of how heavy a door can become when you hold it open for such a long time. She didn't have the strength to keep it open anymore, so that door is now closed. Keys and security codes have been changed. Now he wishes it would at least crack open, but now, it's too late.
He has now cracked open his own door and thinks that this will make it all well.
Do you, my dear reader, get to where I'm going?
Very, very light things--very, very simple things...they can become so heavy...complicated...if taken for granted; a burden and painful even. You combine that with the betrayal of abandonment, grieving silence, broken promises, an excruciating speech, and you'll have yourself a very fragile and shattered glass.
And if he tries to paint her commitment now, all he would be able to paint is a black and white portrait of exhausted hands, a closed door, and a very large glass, completely crumbled. And if, for whatever crazy reason, she agreed to help him put together that glass and they succeeded...this shattered glass would have become pieces again, with something as lightweight as a "not even me" whisper. And he decides to blow on it with a very detailed love story; that's a lot of words to blow on a shattered glass that someone said to be trying to keep pieced together.
And if they both decide to try to put together that fragile, several-times shattered glass, which is now a countless of glass crumbs... Well, that, my dear reader, is an impossible task.
She reached out with both hands and opened the door all the way for a very long time. Now he wants to reach out with one hand and crack his door open. And as she closes her door and as she sits across from him with her arms crossed, he continues to reach with one hand.
Dear reader, can you see from her point of view now?
Oh, dear love...not only is this offering a bit shortened, but the timing is also a bit too late.
It is now just an impossible task.