He would have turned thirty this year. It’s strange to imagine him as an adult. As if, we were always supposed to be children, running through each other’s houses, never taking the other seriously. Maybe that was the plan. Maybe that’s why he didn’t wait. He didn’t overstay his welcome, like I always do.
When I heard what happened to him, I felt as though his spirit passed through my body. I’m alive now, but without my soul, like a speck of dust or a lost star.
I was obsessed with thoughts of dying after it happened. I asked my father if I’d get to meet him once I died. Would he be waiting for me between this world and the next? Would he say something to annoy me like he always did?
He once called me his sweetheart. We were nine and I was mortified.
“Take it back,” I’d begged him. As though if he just took it back, I wouldn’t belong to him in a way I couldn’t understand just yet.
“But you are my sweetheart.” He’d grinned at me.
I ran towards my house, the late summer evening air carried his voice.
“Come back, my sweetheart.”
For weeks afterwards, I refused to talk to him.