#galex

Alex stared his speech, it filled 9 and a half pages and still he wanted to write more and delete everything simultaneously. How was he supposed to convey everything he felt into simple words on a page. How was he supposed to translate his guilt and grief and love and longing and emptiness?

The funeral was in two days. George's parents asked him to speak at it 8 days ago.

Alex had already written about the young boy that he lost long, long ago. The version of George that still had hope and innocence. The George that sat at his dining table with slumped shoulders and clumsy manners, the George who played with Alex's siblings and pets after dinner while waiting to get picked up by his mum, the George who loved racing for the sole reason of racing. The George he fell in love with.

He wrote about how that George disappeared far too soon and was replaced by someone who tried so hard to be good at everything, someone who would change himself so completely for approval, someone who was ultimately still the same sweet Georgie that he loved.

He wrote about the George who raced with everything that he had.

He wrote about the George who laughed and cried and frowned.

He wrote about how he loved George, and that took over 5 pages. Alex loved George far, far more than words could ever hope to describe.

Alex wrote about how his heart still sings at the memory of George's smile and laughter. He wrote about how he would find himself missing George during races because they wouldn't have talked for hours at that point. He wrote about doing the dishes with George carefully drying and packing away the plates and glasses as Alex scrubbed the pots with determined purpose. He wrote about how he would long for those simple domestic moments with George because Alex got to see how the George he adored melted into the Georgie that he loved and cherished. He wrote about how grateful he was to be able to simply exist with George.

Alex still couldn't write enough to capture his love for Georgie. Alex still couldn't write enough to convey who his Georgie was. His pages of writing wasn't enough.

It wasn't enough because Alex couldn't write about the George who loved. He didn't know anything about that George. He didn't know if his heart floated to his throat when he talked to the person he loved. He didn't know if George sighed longingly and sunset, thinking about the person he loved. He didn't know if he blushed at the sight of them or giggled at their jokes. He didn't know if he enjoyed the constant excitement with them or the plain sharing of time and emotions. He didn't know if the love was something new and barely had time to flourish or if it was something long and deep-rooted.

He didn't know because Georgie had buried it so deep inside himself that it had ended up killing him. He swallowed down his love until flowers forced their way out of George's delicate throat. He let his love consume him completely.

Sometimes late at night, when Alex's pillow is soaked with his tears and snot from sobbing at the knowledge that he'll never be able to laugh with George ever again or cook or clean or sleep with George again, he wonders if it was him that George loved. He wonders if George would be laying against him with cold feet pressed against his warmer ones and nose brushing against Alex's throat as he shifts closer to Alex like he used to when they were younger. He wonders if George would still be breathing if Alex was more obvious in his love and adoration of George.

He doesn't know if the idea that George was in love with him is better or worse than the idea he was in love with someone else.