The following is a piece of flash fiction I wrote while I should have been concentrating on NaNoWriMo.
When I was younger, like every child I had the uncanny ability to take things literally. Words held onto their meanings impossibly tight—like the first time my mother told me that I could hear the ocean if I put an ear up to a seashell and I tried to break open her souvenirs from our trip to the beach to see if I could go for a swim. One of the great travesties of growing up is that you will molt this trait.
You and your best friend since kindergarten weren’t actually two peas in a pod no matter how much you used to pretend. If you develop a crush on him and he tells you to take a hike, he’s not asking you to join him up a mountain. He will not eventually fall in love with you even if he lost his balance the first time you kissed him. That’s right, when you sleep together, you’ll share more than just pillows and blankets. At some point you stop saying what you really mean.
When the love of my life told me that we were growing apart, he wasn’t referring to the way peas sometimes do and when he said that he wanted to see other people he didn’t mean with his eyes. But we did break up. In fact, through my cracks I leaked tons of water, leagues of fish, and one very angry Kraken—when I opened my ears and concentrated hard enough I could hear the lonely ocean.