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Of course it hurt to reach beside himself in bed and feel naught but sheets in the cracks of his fingers. Of course his chest ached and his stomach sunk at the thought of something apparently long lost, but what was he to do in the face of silence? He could yell into the void as much as he wished, but he knew what it would end in. His skin prickles for the touch of someone who must not think of him anymore, his hands ache to touch rough, damaged hair and to run over raspy, warm skin. It is only in the silence of his own room, in the dead of night that he allows himself to grieve for someone who has not yet passed.
Or perhaps he has. Would he even find out if he had? Would he get a letter in the mail, informing him of Tord's death, or would that be reserved solely for his family?
It's been years since the monthly phone call and delayed email replies faded out into nothing. It's been years since he felt that too-loose hug goodbye, and even now his hands curl with the wish to have held him a little tighter before he left.
He is alone, it is dark, and he knows not when the ache will settle. He is smiles and clumsy jokes and a stuttery laugh, and yet he curls into himself in the dead of night alone.
He entertains the thought that Tord would hold him, if he were here. Or allow him to hold him. It's disgustingly hopeful and wishful, but he entertains. (Entertains, as if he did not cling to the lone thought as if it were salvation to the grave he didn't dig himself.)
And there is guilt, there is always guilt. He should be happy for him, and in a way, he supposes he is. He rereads emails dramatically proclaiming vague success in subjects Tord won't tell him of and smiles, to himself, because Tord deserves whatever glory he finds himself in. He does not push when Tord closes off at the gentle prodding for answers, and he begs for his return in a pitiful, pathetic manner that has him shutting his laptop a tad too roughly when no reply comes.
He is nauseous at his own want. His need sickens him, and yet it thrives in the most open parts of himself. He will cook too much of foods neither Tom or Matt enjoy at breakfast for a man who no longer resides there, and his hands will twitch when he places them into the fridge for someone who does not visit. The repeats of his habits seem delusional even to himself - he asks himself what on earth he is doing every time he cracks a fourth egg into the pan, knowing he will eat the cold leftovers from the fridge when they are near rotting.
Biting back the shake of his hands is fruitless in the face of memories and broken promises. And despite it all, anger is far from what protrudes the hardest in his mind. Longing, sadness, wishfullness, but not anger. Perhaps frustration, sometimes, directed at himself at one moment or another. He should have held him tighter. He should have tried harder. He should have called more, he should have done it differently. He should have done more. He should have.
If Tord wanted to leave so badly, surely there was a reason. Had he done something? Months of rethinking every word ever spoken to him left him with a handfull of ideas and a chain of guilt tying him to his friend. Months of thinking turned into years, turned into nearly a decade of stupidly hoping for the impossible.
He holds himself tightly that night as he has countless times before, and he does not shut his eyes.
There is weight in every pump of his heart. He watches a blank, white wall.