by Derek Hamilton
I remember his smile. I remember making him laugh. I remember how he gently held my hand. I remember chilly nights spent looking at the stars. I remember long drives to nowhere in particular. I remember how the summer air smelled when he walked me to my car.
I remember when he said goodbye.
It doesn’t get any easier. We’ve all been told that time heals all wounds, but that’s a crude simplification of the healing process. You can always ask why. You can torture yourself trying to figure out where everything went wrong.
That’s how I’ve been spending my time lately.
I go to work. I think about him. I remind myself not to think about him. I think about him. I try to distract myself. I think about him.
Growing up, I was always told “If you want something bad enough, you have to earn it. Nothing is worth having that isn’t worth fighting for.” Looking back on it – there’s a strange disconnect.
What if I’m fighting for him and he doesn’t reciprocate? What if he doesn’t want me? Why is my happiness so dependent on this other person being in my life?
I guess it’s love, but it doesn’t seem right to call it that. It’s something else. It’s like the shadow that love casts. The negative energy that balances out all its positives.
Someone asks me how I’m doing. I think about him. The pit in my stomach turns as I wrestle for sleep. I think about him.
This is my life now. I think about him.
This is all I have to look forward to. I think about him.
This is the summary of my entire existence. I think about him.