I miss him. I’m not going to write about the awkwardness of “us”, nor of his mannerisms that made me cringe. I’m going to tell you how deeply I was in love with him.
I miss his laugh. It wasn’t booming. It was just like him: quiet but so sweet. I liked best when I was the one that had made him laugh because then he would squeeze my hand or give me a half-hug or just LOOK at me the way that he does, and say softly, “I love you.” Then I would smile, and he would smile back, and there was this moment of equilibrium or something where we would just smile at each other and something would pass between us. I’m not sure exactly what passed….maybe it was just love. I know that many times, it was difficult to look away. I think I could have sat there for an entire day just like that: holding his hand and searching his face with my eyes, and maybe touching his hair. Oh how I loved his hair. It was so soft, just like a rabbit’s fur. I used to love just putting my hands in it, letting my fingers run through it. His hair was my weakness. So, too, was his smell. I remember for awhile, he smelled just like a thick blue chiffon pillow. He said that his mom had made haluski or something and stunk up the house, and now they had candles burning all over the place. I wish I would have asked him what the candle scent was officially so I could have purchased a truckload. After the haluski incident, though, he still smelled so wonderful. Just like a boy: the perfect blend of soap and deodorant and something that was just him, something soft. Soft is such a good word to describe him in general. His voice was kind of soft, and his hands were so gentle, and his kisses were so sweet. His kisses: another weakness to add to the list. He was so tender about it. He would sometimes grab my waist, or maybe my neck. I loved how he kissed my neck. It just felt so right, so natural. He would kiss my neck and I would finger his hair and we were just so happy in love. It was almost as if I couldn’t breathe right because he was just so intoxicating. His taste made me drunk and greedy. It was sweetness solidified. Sometimes I could tell what he had eaten that day. Sometimes I didn’t even want to kiss him, didn’t want to complicate our friendship, but I just couldn’t pull myself away. My entire body was focused on his mouth, his neck, his hands. I felt his kisses everywhere. But it wasn’t just his kisses that I felt all over; he would say things to me and I could feel the words hitting my body. He would tell me that I made his heart melt, and I swear I could feel shivers in my legs. He would say that my hips were sexy, and my body would produce alternating waves of heat and cold. He would tell me I was beautiful, and I felt the urge to hold him, to embrace him for years. The thing is, he was just so genuine about it all. I don’t think I’m beautiful. I’m okay- I’m not upset with what I’ve been given- but I’m not drop-dead gorgeous. He, though, made me feel like something special, like someone that mattered. He told me that I changed his life. (See? Our relationship was so not about being physical, even though that was a beautiful bonus.) He told me that I made him happy, and that I gave him confidence and a smile and all sorts of wonderful things. He made me cry on more than one occasion because he was just so kind to me. My family treats me quite nicely, but I’m not used to anyone going out of his/her way to do something nice. He did, though. I used to love the notes he would write me during school. Oh how I looked forward to those notes; they kept my day going. They were able to cheer me up and make me smile and giggle. I still have all of his notes saved in a box under my bed.
He made me a tape once. Not a mixed tape of songs written about me; no, it was a copy of him playing “Drops of Jupiter” for me on the piano. After the song, he spoke to me and said that he would miss me and that he loved me. I don’t know if it made me cry or not.
We used to spend hours on the phone. I took him out for his sixteenth birthday and after I dropped him off at his house, he said, “Call me.” I vowed to do so unless my parents were home; if they were home, I was so not free to say the things I wanted to say. Luckily, neither his nor my parents were home, so I called him and we talked for three hours. We didn’t always talk on the phone; sometimes we just listened. That night I remember telling him that I didn’t always pay attention to the story he was telling; sometimes, I just listened to his voice. There were many times where we didn’t say anything at all, but some of those conversations were the best I’d ever had; I sat there and knew my best friend in the world was on the other end of that phone call, thinking about me.
I think about him so much. It’s probably unhealthy. Lately I can’t get him out of my head. He invades my thoughts. Sometimes I try to stop myself, but more and more often, I’ve been allowing myself to indulge in ten minutes of him: replaying his kisses in my mind, hearing those words he spoke so sweetly, feeling his hand grasp and squeeze mine.
I’m surprised at how much I miss him. But I still think it’s best that we are apart. My practical side points out that now we are friends. I hug him when I go home, but our lips have not met in three months. Maybe I miss him, but just maybe, I miss the idea of him, someone that loves me.
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