Cracks

I was a city girl with humble dreams. Then Dylan O’Dea broke into my flat, held me against the wall, and told me to stay quiet. It was like in the movies, where the universe zeros in on a single scene. I looked into his eyes and knew he was going to change me. For Dylan, the sky was always falling. He showed me how our world is a contradiction of beauty and ugliness. How we choose to ignore the awful and gloss over it with the palatable. How you need just a tiny drop of something unsavoury to create every great scent.

He came back to me 16 minutes and 59 seconds into Beethoven’s Symphony no. 7. We parted amid tragedy, so it seemed poetic. Dylan O’Dea, my childhood sweetheart, once meant everything to me. Now we were strangers, and honestly, after 11 years I never thought I’d see him again. I lived in the world of the average, of getting paid by the hour and budgeting to make ends meet. But Dylan, he lived in the world of wealth and success. He’d achieved the great things I always suspected he would. The dissatisfaction he’d felt as a teenager had obviously been an excellent motivator.