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Sometimes he thinks about all the things that didn’t happen, and all the things he didn’t say. All the things that won’t happen and all the things he won’t be able to say.
Chances lost, never to come back, washed away by the unending, merciless stream of passing time.
He wanted to tell him that he had changed his life, giving it a meaning, a taste, and colours he wouldn’t have ever expected. But then, he would have called that ridiculous poetry, sappy emotionalism, wouldn’t he?
He wanted to tell him that he was the kind of friend he would have wanted when he was 12; someone to drag him into dangerous and exciting adventures, them against the world.
He wanted to tell him that his eyes unsettled him, pale, icy, all-knowing, other-worldly. They were spectacularly weird, in a nice way.
He wanted to tell him that he liked the way he curled up on the sofa like a teenage boy after a tantrum.
He wanted to pin him to the wall, watch his eyes go wide in surprise, hold him still and put his lips to that pale, creamy neck.
Most of all, he wanted to tell him that he loved him, even though he knew he could read it in the way his blood pounded in his veins or his pupils dilated when he was standing too close.
He never said those words. He never touched him like that. Regret is all he has left.
But if he could, he would say those words, and he would do these things.
If he had a second chance – if a miracle happened – he knows he would.