— Magnolia
I hold my breath, squeezing the phone in my hand as I click “send.”
And then my heart starts to thump erratically when I notice the little dot by his name turn green, alerting me that he’s online. He’s probably reading my e-mail right now.
Something about that feels so… intimate.
My feet tap the wood planks beneath my kitchen table as I wait for him to respond, my palms sweaty, my chest rattling with suspense. I wait a few minutes, then a few more, almost ready to turn off my phone and call it a night, when a little message box pops up, and my breath catches.
Zephyr: I think you meant “imperfect.”
I blink at the response, frozen. Mentally tongue-tied. Those five words hang between us, nearly palpable, something I can almost reach out and touch. With the e-mail correspondence, there was a bit of a disconnect—room to pretend.
The imaginary Zephyr and his make-believe heart.
But this, this instant messaging, this live conversation… it all feels too real.
There’s a bitter sting in the back of my throat, and I notice that my hands are trembling as I hold the phone face a few inches from mine.
Think, think, think.
Words.
I need words.
I swallow back the sting and the residue it leaves behind, then type out a rambling reply.
Me: I didn’t. Unperfect and imperfect are both accurate and carry the same meaning, but unperfect is less recognized. It’s overshadowed by its prettier, shinier counterpart, and I can’t help but relate to that. Everything deserves a chance to make a comeback, you know?
A heartbeat skips by before his response comes through.
Zephyr: Touché.
It only takes one more heartbeat for me to realize that I’m smiling.