I remember how he had this way of tilting his head and asking, "forever?" And I'd tell him that it's a complicated question or time will tell. But every night before going to sleep, he'd whisper in a quiet voice, "forever?". I never understood what he meant by that, whether he was asking for a promise or reassurance. He knew I loved him and I wondered why that was not enough for him.
But some mornings I'd catch him looking in the mirror, the way I watched myself while I calculated what was wrong with my body, while I thought about the parts I had to cut and carve and sculpt and I thought maybe he was insecure.
Until one day, when we were curled next to each other in a mist of grief, he told me that when his mother was dying of a cancer, she held his hand every night and he'd say to her 'I'll be here when you wake up mom." And she'd ask him, "forever?". He said he felt good when he said yes, he felt like he was helping her in some way, taking power back from the nasty illness. Until one day he couldn't. That's when I realized that every night he was promising me a new morning with him, he didn't expect an answer. It was his way of saying "I'll be here for you". It wasn't reassurance he was seeking, it was his way of saying he didn't want to lose me too.
It's been 3 years since I last saw him. We grew apart like people do. But darling boy, I'll love you forever, but that forever is frozen in the summer of 2016.
-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The world is a sphere of ice and our hands are made of fire
prguitarman
stormborns
