Chapter 4: A Dance of Molecules

He was an artist, but not the kind who was spontaneously inspired by a muse. He planned everything meticulously, down to the last detail. He kept lists for everything —every task, every idea. He wasn’t messy; quite the opposite. Every paper, pencil, and item had its designated spot, its container, its place. He was also a businessman who understood how money ruled the world, so he didn’t paint just for art’s sake; most of the time, he devised elaborate plans to sell his paintings.

Even if he had the typical problem with socks like many men, he liked to dust. She had laughed so hard the first time he confessed this to her. He said he loved watching the dance of the molecules, the particles floating in the air, so he would only dust when it was sunny, just to see them. If it was rainy or cloudy… well, you could tell by the amount of dust gathered on his shelves. It was the weather’s fault. Yet no amount of rain would stop him from his morning jogs; he said he couldn’t sit still for hours and paint without them.

Finally, he persuaded her to stay. How could he tell her that he, too, wanted to run away? That he, too, was full of shame and desperately clinging to his last bit of sanity? Yes, he made a mistake—a huge mistake. But aren’t we supposed to realize our mistakes only in hindsight? Is it so difficult to believe that a guy could genuinely be sorry for hurting the one person he truly loved? His problem was that he lived too much in the moment. He got carried away easily, too full of love, too eager to spread it everywhere. And no, this wasn’t just some horny guy who couldn’t keep his desires in check. It wasn’t just about an erection. It was the dance, the mystery, the glances. He was too eager to know someone completely. The act itself wasn’t important; it was the rush before it, the thrill of the forbidden.

Why do we chase after something just because it’s forbidden? He was still testing limits, like a toddler. He had never had limits in his life. This is why he was so obsessed with creating them now, making list after list to teach himself some boundaries, to create some order in his reckless life. In the moment, there was no J, or X, or Y… it was just a dance of molecules in the sunlight. And how could he ever explain this to her? That he loved her despite his wretched act? That you can do things that hurt without intending to, that you can be so naïve to think that nothing ever changes afterward…

They both sat down to talk and emerged a little different than before. Maybe that’s what love is… it makes us better without us even trying, sometimes in unexpected ways. Maybe love is that place where our flaws are revealed, bubble up, and sputter, and then the other person comes along and doesn’t merely bandage it or put a sticker over it. They challenge us to think differently, to act differently. That person who accepts those flaws without trying to change you, yet still changes every piece of you each time they’re accepted. She didn’t run away this time. He didn’t either. And it was all because he insisted. And it was all because she forgave him. Their biggest flaws were healed by their biggest assets… or were they also flaws? A flaw needs a context.

Maybe love is that place where we take steps towards each other. And we change together.