Like a promise. Like an apology. Like the thing he couldn’t say with words since we were kids finally finding the only language he has.
It feels like blue daisies.
Like his hand finding mine under the stars when we were eight.
Like every rooftop and every locked door and every morning I woke up alone. Like coming home to something I didn’t know was mine until I had it.
• • •
“I love you,“ I say.
I don’t mean to. It just comes out. After too many years of keeping it in.
He goes still for one suspended second.
Then he kisses me. Hard and certain and nothing held back. Like the words broke the last door open.
And we fall apart together.
• • •
His name in my mouth. Mine on his.
Both of us finally, completely, here.
After, we don't move.
I don't know where he ends and I start—just a tangle of limbs.
He pulls me in. Wraps around me from behind. His arm heavy against my chest. His face against the back of my head. His heartbeat steady against my spine.
Two years.
Gone.
Like they never even happened.
I stare at the dark ceiling.
His breathing evening out behind me.
And then I remember my mom.
The guilt is total and instant.
Like cold water—sobering me up.
That I could be happy on this night.
While my dad is in a bed that's half empty.
While the cardigan is still on a hook by the door.
I should only feel grief.
I hope she would understand.
I press my hand over his and let myself have it.
