There once was a boy who was in love with a girl.
He told her he loved her, and he knew she didn’t feel the same. She told him she was bad for him, and he swore he didn’t care.

There once was a boy who was in love with a girl.
She wasn’t right. Not that she was wrong, but she was not right. She always talked about getting away, going away, far away. He swore he would one day get her there.

There once was a boy who was in love with a girl.
She called him one day, hysterical, and told him that she needed to leave. She needed to get out of that town, she couldn’t stay there. He swore he would be over in ten minutes to get her.

There once was a boy who was in love with a girl.
He picked her up in his dusty, old 1972 Ford Fairmont Sedan and she climbed onto the cracked leather seat and he took her hand. She told him she needed to go. He swore he wouldn’t stop driving until she said so.

They drove. And drove. They stopped after driving nineteen hours and seventeen minutes straight and passed out in the parking lot of a rundown motel. In the morning he bought them bad coffee and stale bagels at an old Getty gas station. He asked her where to next and she told him anywhere.

They drove. And drove. They reached Arizona by nighttime and clung to each other for heat under a sky that held so many stars that it was more light than dark. He asked her if she was okay. She told him she loved him. They made love for the first time under a night sky that was more light than dark.

In the morning they drove to the Grand Canyon. Under the blistering sun he yelled out into the vast space that he loved her and she laughed happily at his echo bouncing off of the rocks. They stayed at the Grand Canyon for three days, four hours, and twenty-three minutes. When she stopped laughing and looked at him with wild eyes he picked her up, brought her to the car, and drove on.

They drove to California and he introduced her to the great Redwoods. He laughed as he watched her walk circles around the giants, speechless at their size. She introduced him to cigarettes. She laughed as he choked down the smoke, breathless from the burning in his throat. They both got too annoyed with the tourists and got in the car and drove on.

They drove to Seattle and fell in love with the coffee. And she fell in love with the crappy pizza and the rain. She told him she wanted to stay there. He smiled and bought them a one-room rental above a coffee shop. She was happy because their room always smelled like coffee beans, and she was happy because she loved the sound of the rain. He was happy because he loved her.

They stayed in Seattle for two months, eleven days, eight hours, and fifty-seven minutes. He came home one day to find her frantically packing their bags, screaming that she had to get out. He kissed her on the forehead, finished her packing, and they got in the car and drove on.

They drove to a lazy town in Montana and fell in love with the scent of lumber. She told him she wanted to stay there and he nodded and got a job at the local lumber yard. They rented out a small cottage in town. Every day he worked his hands to the bone, collecting splinters and calluses from the wood. Every evening he would pick up a bouquet of flowers for her and she would kiss him and put them in a vase. She learned how to make tea and knit from a group of old ladies in town. She surprised him with a sweater she made herself. He wore that sweater constantly, even though the collar was too tight and it was itchy, because he loved her.

They were in Montana for seven months, one day, and forty-two minutes. He found her smashing their plates in the kitchen, palms bloody from the jagged glass. She begged him to take her out of there. He nodded, collected their things, quit his job, and they got in the car and drove on.

In the car she spent her whole time unraveling the sweater she had knit for him. When all that was left of it was a pile of yarn, she let it fly out the window. And she smiled for the first time since leaving and he smiled because he loved her.

They drove to Chicago and fell in love with the endless amount of Thai takeouts. He found them an apartment and he got a job working nights as a janitor. Every night he would spend hours on his knees scrubbing floors and dusting windows. Every morning he would surprise her with a pastry from their favorite cafe. She would kiss him and share it with him. Every day they would go for a walk in the park and point out the shapes of clouds, and even though he looked silly doing it, he did it because he loved her.

They were in Chicago for one year, eleven months, twenty-one days, nineteen hours, and four minutes. He came home from work one morning and found her under the bed, screaming that she needed to leave. Her long, dark hair that he had loved was chopped off, bits and pieces littering the ground. He nodded, told her she looked beautiful, packed some things, and they got in the car and drove on.

They did this time and time again. All over the country. Small town, big city. Rural to urban. Never the suburbs, she would never go back to that.

For a few weeks they lived in their car. He drove on aimlessly during the day and at night he would hold her as she shook from her nightmares. He barely got any sleep those weeks, but he did it because he loved her.

One time they were resting in a park and she began crying that her monsters were attacking her. He fought off her monsters and saved her by running around, yelling at them to stay back or he would kill them. He almost got arrested for disrupting the peace. She laughed deliriously at this, and he laughed too because he loved her.

There was another time where she wanted to have sex three times a day for two weeks straight. So he made love to her three times a day, for two weeks straight, because he loved her.

But too many times she would not talk for days. She wouldn’t eat. She wouldn’t sleep. They would just drive from town to town, city to city. Sometimes staying for two days, or five weeks, or eight months, but never forever.

He could never marry her, she wouldn’t be able to live with the permanence of marriage. And he was okay with this, because he loved her.

He could never have her forever, she was not his to keep. She was not the world’s to keep. She would never be concrete, never would stay rooted to the ground. She was the smoke of the cigarettes she ruined her lungs with, always everywhere, slipping through his hands, addictive but impossible to hold for too long. He knew there wasn’t much time left to save her. There wasn’t much her left to save. But he remained with her until the end, because he had sworn that he would, and because he loved her.

One day he came home from work, six years exactly from the day they had first left their hometown, and found her dead in the kitchen. A crumpled note, soaked with the crimson that pooled on the floor, held the words “I’m sorry. I had to get out, I couldn't stay here. I love you.”

He had her cremated and with her ashes he got into their 1972 Ford Fairmont Sedan and drove away. He drove to each town, each city, every place they had ever been. He stopped at Chicago, and Montana, and Seattle. He visited the Redwoods and the Grand Canyon. He spent the night in the Arizona desert where they had made love for the first time under the night sky that was far more bright than dark.

In each place he scattered a few of her ashes to the wind. She never belonged in one place, she belonged everywhere. He left the rest of her ashes at the old Getty they had first stopped at all those years ago. He didn't want to bring any of her ashes back to where they first had left, he knew she would hate that. He knew this, and he did all this, because he loved her.

There once was a boy who was in love with a girl.
He swore he would love her until the day he died.

And he did.