happy is pretty.

It was fall in Vancouver and freezing. We were perusing the wall decor at a local shop and everything reminded me of someone I once knew. Every dream, every crystal platter, every cigarette.

I wondered when anyone would ever be enough that I wouldn't draw the comparison to him. No one is him; and I wouldn't want anyone to be.

After that, I was crying a lot. Almost every day, actually. I cried until yesterday when no tear dared to surface. I concluded that happiness is more worthwhile than sadness; and she was wrong, sad is not beautiful. Sad is sad.

In the car, he made me angry for echoing my own sentiments. I wanted him to be more committed than me; I've always wanted that. And then he talked for half an hour about how he too experiences amazing things in loneliness and lives every day wishing he had someone to share those isolated moments with. It was the first measure of understanding I've experienced since I was seventeen years old: See the world; do it alone, if you must.

Wandering through galleries and meeting people on Sunday left me sobbing in my driver's seat on Sunset Boulevard. He knew how I felt, but I never thought to mention it.

I could feel him falling in love with me when my sister visited. He said I'd never looked so beautiful, he said he'd never seen me so happy. I told him that family is what makes me happy. I told him he was my family but also the person I have the freedom to be sad around. He said I can't count on him for so much.

He was right.

I continue to wonder when it will ever be enough. According to my sister and mother, it never will be. Maybe there is a tiny avenue others don't know about. How hard it is to mend this vast dichotomy; that is, if it were meant for mending in the first place.