Work Text:
After 196 days, 8 hours, and 12 minutes,
I can’t remember your gentle smile and how I’d do anything to see it again.
The way your tongue felt in my mouth and what you tasted like.
The unsightly position in which you laid there, your body distorted, unresponsive, and motionless.
What I can remember is how you never stopped reaching for the stars.
Can I ask you, are they within reach yet?
After 196 days, 8 hours, and 12 minutes,
I’ve accepted the fact my highly anticipated high-school romance has slipped away from my comfortable grip.
Although, could we even call what we had a “romance”?
Sure, we made out more times than a few, but could we truly call our full history romantic ?
If you were here, you’d probably tell me I'm overthinking it. But you know- knew- me, I like to be precise. “The ever so punctilious and diligent Amity Blight”, as you’d say. So let’s figure this out together. What would you call our tangled, disorganized,
finished
relationship?
Of course, I don’t actually expect an answer. And while I’m being honest, if not for your constant reassurance and affection, I’d say you hated me.
How much time, how many days, did I spend taunting, making fun of, or ignoring you? And how much time, how many days, did you spend telling me you forgave me?
I’m really not- really wasn’t- deserving of you.
And your forgiveness.
And your- what was the word you’d say to me all the time? That short word with so much meaning? The one you never pressured me to use back?
Oh right. Love.
Luz, I really didn’t deserve your love.
After 196 days, 8 hours, and 12 minutes,
I’ve realized I ran out of time.
The very last grain of sand had hit the bottom of the hourglass. And let me tell you, the size of that hourglass was pretty damn large.
You told me every day. Every hour- I’m willing to bet.
You told me when no one else would. Never over text, always in person.
But me?
Hey Luz, did you realize I had never told you I loved you?
Or was it exactly that fact that fueled your anxiety and kept you up at night?
After 196 days, 8 hours, and 12 minutes,
I’ve come to realize that I loved you. I really loved you.
I loved how you loved me. I loved the sound of you knocking on my door when I called for you on late nights to keep me company. I loved how you’d always fall asleep after I did, to make sure I did ever fall asleep. I guess my insomnia became a problem for both me and you.
After 196 fucking days, 8 goddamn hours, and 12 hellish minutes,
I’ve learned to forgive, just as you did, with me.
I forgave those drunk kids in that car.
I forgave them for not seeing you on your bike that night, on your way to my house.
I forgave them for taking the one person I needed 196 days, 8 hours, and 12 minutes ago.
And, with your help, I’ve forgiven myself. For hurting you. For hurting me. And for choosing to stay hurt for so long.
I know you won’t be alive tomorrow, or next week, or 196 days, 8 hours, and 12 minutes from now, but if you were I’d tell you:
Hey Luz, let’s fall in love all over again in the next life.