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I loved someone who died
🕑 Added 2024-03-16 20:27:34 +0000 UTCI loved someone who died and he had the same name as you. There’s no real reason I should still think about him or still miss him but I do. I loved him more than I should have considering we were never anything real, but scenes from the night we met still flash in my mind from time to time. It was a random night at a random house with a random group of boys my girlfriends and I had mostly never met — a typical older teenage basement hangout while so and so’s parents were out of town. I didn’t like him right away; I thought he was silly and strange and he was entertaining all of us with his obscene jokes and weird voices like a court jester. After the initial awkward sips of beer and laughs while the tv screen illuminated an otherwise dark room, he and I were the last two standing when the others paired off and found their respective corners. I think he could tell I wasn’t comfortable because he asked if I wanted to go outside — the house backed up to a lake that was really pretty he said. I hesitantly agreed and we walked out into the crisp night, away from a gathering I never really wanted to go to anyway.
The moon was so big and bright and reflecting off of the lake in a way that made it almost look daylight, except everything was bathed in an electric blue shadow. We walked around the lake and he reached out and held my hand as we strolled side by side. I don’t remember what we talked about except for him asking: What do you think happens when we die? I don’t remember what I answered but I remember knowing he was listening to me. Eventually back near the house, we were standing really close to each other face to face and he asked if he could kiss me. Looking back, I’ve realized it was the first time I had ever looked into someone’s eyes who carried a deep pain that was recognizable to me. It was the first time I felt something beyond a childish high school crush-like longing — the first time I had felt the visceral and unnerving feeling of lust for something deeper than a charming personality or a pretty face. It was the first time he kissed me but just like all the times after that, when he pulled back to look at me he made a certain silly face, baring his teeth and scrunching up his face like a wild animal to make me laugh. He made me laugh always. He told me once that it was his greatest joy to make people laugh and I noticed right away that he was really good at it.
I saw him a total of less than 10 times in my whole life, over the course of a year or two. I moved away and came back and moved away again, but over the years we stayed in touch at a distance somewhat. My family never knew him, my friends never knew him, he was never a part of my life in any sort of meaningful way, so when he died, I never had anyone to share the grief with. He was a silent shadow in my life, and I in his. I knew he wasn’t doing well for years before he was gone, and we were supposed to meet up a few months before, but it never lined up. It’s something I’ve had a hard time forgiving myself for. Three days after he died he came to me in a dream. I asked him why he was there and he said he needed to see me, and gave me a long hug. It’s been about 16 years since that first night, and about 8 years since he died, and I still think about his eyes. His smile. His pain. The way he just wanted everyone around him to laugh and to be okay. The way he hid behind that jester’s charade and the way he was quietly broken inside and the way he looked at me.
I loved someone who died and you remind me of him.
