Her Best Love Story - Tracie Renee

Content note: alcohol use, broken relationships

In the end, all she wanted—all she had ever wanted—was to fall in love and stick the landing, but now it was clear: he had only ever meant to fall.

The falling happened in letters. There was a part of her that would not be quiet, and that was the part she wrote down—in emails to strangers, parcels for bands she liked, poems for the NO POSTAGE NECESSARY envelopes that accompanied credit card statements. She scattered postmarked pieces of herself across the city, the country, the ocean. She gave herself away the way light diffuses, ribbon by gossamer ribbon. One day, he sent a small piece of himself back. That was their beginning.

He wrote, I don’t usually do this but—

Then, I think I’m a little drunk right now—

And eventually, I love you.

She wrote back to him: I love you, too. There was a plane ticket, a stamp on his passport, a first kiss in her favorite park.

They had been walking, hand in hand, her shadow disappearing into his, when suddenly the conversation lulled and he swung her arm gently up and up and over her head. She thought they were dancing; she was ready to spin. But he rested his other hand on her hip and walked her back into the dark, into the green leaves, into a tree. He walked the warmth of his body into hers like she was a door, and the whole world would open if their lips met—and then their lips met. And the world did.

That kiss consumed her, and she let it. She’d read that 93% of the human body is stardust; she was convinced that the calcium and carbon and nitrogen in her body must have come from the same star as the elements in his because kissing him felt like coming home, like she had not known a part of herself was missing until the distance between them closed and everything that burned, brightened. Became whole. And although they were not dancing, not quite, the world spun anyway.

He said, Wow.

And, You feel it too?

And, I don’t want to leave, but—

So they kissed all the way up to the airport terminal, and then his mouth was a key pulling out of a lock, quick. He turned away fast and fell into the crowd, growing smaller and smaller, a waning moon. Her lips were wet where his tears had married hers. And her body, now a universe, hummed.

If this were a book like the ones she read, the story would end here. If this were a film like the ones she watched, the final song would swell here. She knew books and movies weren’t real life, but she thought maybe there was still some magic in the world that wasn’t just the slant of moonlight or the flash of pyrotechnics. Maybe sometimes you could postmark your heart and spend the rest of your life with your back against a tree, in a kiss that made kissing make sense. But when he left, he left for good. 

He wrote, I’m sorry.

Then, I can’t—

And eventually, I’m not the person you want me to be.

She thought maybe none of it had been really real. Or maybe real did not always mean happily ever after? She was not sure which was worse. He fell and fell and then resisted falling; she fell and fell and never landed. She wrote and wrote but he never answered again.

She thought, That’s that and sealed his letters (her heart) in a box smaller than a postage stamp. To her surprise there was room to spare: the letters flopped and knocked against shut flaps like a beggar’s fist on a slammed door and her heart rattled the empty corners like a shadow shrinking into dusk. She shoved the box under her bed and tried to remember who she had been before his hands were in her hair. Sometimes she went back to the park and searched among the trees for the ghost of what had been, the ghost of what almost was. But all she ever found there were leaves, their green deepening to gold, their gold crumbling to dust.

She said, Oh.

And, What now?

And, If not him, then who?

There was nothing left to feel, nothing left to write, nothing left to say, so she kissed anyone who would kiss her back: men in bars. Women in teashops. And a few warm bodies that were something in-between, wherever they wanted her. Sometimes she almost liked it. But none of those kisses lit the sky.

She said, I’m sorry.

Then, I can’t—

And eventually, I’m not the person you want me to be.

When there was nothing left to kiss, she returned to the rooms that were almost home, the rooms where she slept and read, the rooms like a body that did not quite fit, the rooms where nothing quite belonged. She dyed her hair and swapped the pictures on the walls. She rearranged the feelings on her face and moved the furniture around, and that was how the box under the bed found her again. She was going to burn the letters—but first, she read them. And while she read them, she peered between the lines, the words, and saw herself: the muse. The catalyst. She met herself again and again and each time, she remembered more. Each time, she fell more in love with herself. Each time, her heart fluttered and swelled against its cardboard cage until at last, it burst out. Was born.

Her heart said, Wow.

And, You can.

And, You are already the person you need to be.

She settled into herself the way flame settles into a hearth, the way the warmth of a hearth makes a house a home. Then she bundled his letters into a neat stack, bound them with a gossamer ribbon, and settled the story on a shelf of her bookcase. And although she was not in the park, she could feel the tree against her back. Although she was alone, something inside her burned, brightened. Became whole. Although she was not dancing, not quite, the world spun. She fell and fell and this time, she stuck the landing; this was her beginning.

Originally published in issue 34 of Elegant Literature, September 2024

TRACIE RENEE (she/her) is a librarian, a Publishers Weekly book reviewer, and a BOTN-nominated writer who lives and dreams in sort-of Chicago. Find her in HAD, Orange Blossom Review, on Bluesky (@tracierenee.bsky.social) and at https://linktr.ee/tracie.renee.