Two Things

This is how a girl becomes a woman. She is born loud in a quiet house, with glitter on her cheeks, dirt on her knees and raindrops in her hair, holding daisies like daggers and teddy bears like shields. She is told to be soft, to be sweet, to be small. But she climbs trees anyway, and even though the bark leaves scratches that make her bleed, she loves the feeling of being on top of the world at the same time. And she doesn't understand how two things can be true at once. This is how a boy becomes a man. He is born into noise, into expectation, into a world where trucks roar and silence means weakness. He builds towers with blocks and knocks them down for fun, is told not to cry when his dog dies, and laughs too loud to hide the ache. He bathes in muddy streams and rolls in grass with joy, even though his mother feels the opposite when he enters the house covered in dirt. And he doesn't understand how two things can be true at once. In primary school, the girl learns how to line up. She makes friends over juice boxes and shared secrets, drawing galaxies in the margins of her math book. She gets her first gold star and learns how to raise her hand. One day she is laughed at for singing too loud, and she discovers that girls can be quite cruel, yet so beautiful at the same time. And she doesn't understand how two things can be true at once. In primary school, the boy kicks the ball too hard. He skins his knees and is told to walk it off. He trades Pokémon cards and learns how to lie, just a little, just to win. He discovers video games, and they are quite violent and gory, yet so fun at the same time. And he doesn't understand how two things can be true at once. In high school, the girl sharpens like a blade. She learns to wear armour disguised as eyeliner, to smile with her mouth but not her eyes. She falls in love with books that break her, and people who do the same. Her heart cracks, but she doesn't let it leak. She dances in her room when no one's looking and dreams of being anywhere but here. She discovers her love for perfume and picks out a new scent every term. And the boys love how she smelled and she loved that, even though it made her feel sick at the same time. And she doesn't understand how two things can be true at once. In high school, the boy becomes quieter. He lifts weights like burdens, hoping muscles will carry what his voice can't. He kisses someone for the first time, and shakes afterwards. He watches his father drink anger from a bottle, and he swears he won't be that kind of man. He tells jokes because it's safer than telling truths. He joins a sports team and becomes captain. He doesn't like how they talk about girls in the locker room, but he thought it was quite funny at the same time. And he doesn't understand how two things can be true at once. In university, the girl starts to hate the rain. It frizzes her hair, ruins her shoes and makeup, and makes her feel like she's falling apart at the edges. She's dating the boy, now. He doesn't text back, forgets plans, says, "you're overthinking it," when she cries. She wears black more often, starts writing poetry in secret again, remembers who she used to be, and wonders if she'll ever be her again. She tells herself this is love because she loves him, and he makes her feel lost and alive at the same time. And she doesn't understand how two things can be true at once. In university, the boy discovers alcohol. It burns and numbs and silences, which feels like relief on some nights. He is dating the girl, now. She's too perfect, too present, and he feels like a shadow beside her. He skips classes, starts fights, cries himself to sleep and blames it on the pillow. He tells himself that she'll leave soon. But she doesn't and he loves her, yet wishes he wasn't there to drag her down with him. And he doesn't understand how two things can be true at once. She drives home to the rest of her life, alone in her car, the rain tapping softly against the glass. She remembers the scabbed knees, the wild and wide open. She remembers the juice box friendships, and her voice being too much. She remembers her eyes painted sharp, and her perfume like battle smoke. She remembers the ache of loving someone who felt like absence. And she realises now, each version of her was not a shedding, but a layering. She was not broken to pieces, but built from them. And that is what it means to survive. But she still doesn't understand how two things can be true at once. He drives home to the rest of his life, alone in his car, headlights painting the night gold. He remembers the muddy knees and his dog's quiet grave. He remembers the small triumphs and the quiet cheats. He remembers his strength like armour, his silence like surrendering, and his emotions turning to nothing. He remembers the sting of being loved when you don't love yourself. And he realises now, he was never running away. He was always circling back to the boy who just wanted to be understood. And this is what it means to heal. But he still doesn't understand how two things can be true at once. She watched the child barreling through the room, wild with wonder, clutching stuffed animals tight, asking if the moon listens to secret wishes, telling stories in colours no one has named yet. In that wild joy, she sees herself. That small, vast girl with glitter and questions, And now she finally understands that she was joyful and hurting and lost and found and loving and afraid to love, and all of it was real. And now she finally understands how two things can be true at once. He watches the child leap from couch to carpet, laughter spilling brighter than the stars outside, seeing a boy with scraped knees and reckless joy. And now he finally understands that he was strong and scared and silent and screaming and holding so much but showing so little, and all of it was real. And now he finally understands how two things can be true at once.