For you who came before me
The thing is he still talks about you.
About growing up together in that small town and knowing everyone who lived there. About coming into the bakery to get free cookies and you smelling like sweets when you walk home together. About learning to calm you down at night when your parents separated and then getting him to talk when it was his dad who walked away.
He still talks about the first time you said I love you and that it scared the shit out of him because he didn’t know if you knew what that meant yet. He talks about the days you both spent talking about everything and the nights spent in silence just listening to each other breathing through the phone.
He talks about the day he realized he may be different. He talks about the day you both sat down and discovered yourselves. He talks about the fear and the freedom. Of the doubts and your encouragements. He talks of the strength you gave him to be who he was and know that it’s okay. He talks of the warmth of your hand when you held his as he told his family that he likes boys.
He talks of the day you said I love you and how he smiled so brightly because he knew what you meant now. He talks about the days spent tangled up in sheets, learning every curve of each other’s bodies. Of the way it felt like he was being undone and humbled at the fact that you fit so perfectly together.
He talks about the tattoos. Of holding each other’s hand through the pain. Of knowing that it’s forever now—a promise of always. He talks about the day you both moved to London for Uni. Of living together—even if you practically were back home. Of studying late into the night and waking up to the smell of breakfast you always got up early to make.
He talks about loving you and being loved by you. Of the future you both had envisioned. A small house with 3—maybe 5—children with blue eyes and curly hair. Because of course they had to have your hair. And we both know he always had to have it his way. He talks about the day you found out you were sick. About how it felt like the world was crashing down on him. About the anger he felt at life being so unfair. He talks about watching you slowly slip away from him and feeling so helpless. He talks about being strong in front of you. Of pretending that everything was okay and that you were both okay. He talks about trying to imagine his life without you and how he couldn’t. How when the day came and you took your last breath, it felt like it was his last too.
He still talks about you. About how you were his bestfriend, his first love, his confidant, his home. He talks about you and I listen.
I am so grateful to be able to listen. To learn about his life, about what makes him happy, about you. To learn about this beautiful blue-eyed boy and his deepest love. To hold him and make him smile again. It’s enough to stand by his side and watch him come alive again. To watch his eyes go soft whenever I call out to him.
It’s enough to lay beside him at night and watch as the moonlight casts shadows on his face and think—God, you’re beautiful. It’s enough to be able to say I love you, Lou and watch him get flustered. It’s enough to be the one he rushes to when something good or bad happens. It’s enough. Having him now is more than enough for me.
“Zayn, we doing this or what?”
We’re getting a tattoo together today. The first one he’s getting in 5 years. The first of many I hope we’re getting together. They will sit next to yours. To your promises. I think it’ll be beautiful.
“Definitely doing it, babe.”
He still talks about you and the thing is, I really don’t mind.
