I can’t remember a single thing we said that night in 2016. Not one word. We probably ordered the filet mignon and nodded at the waiter like we had opinions about the cut, just trying to look like people who had finally arrived somewhere. I chose gin for the elegance; you chose vodka—no ornament, no apology. That was the first pressure: trying to match your clarity with my own performance. I don’t remember the talk, but I remember the light. Your hair caught the sun and gave it back like a late-afternoon rerun, and I realized it wasn’t metaphorical gold; it was the kind you dig for with your bare hands.

I started imagining your future face; the laugh lines, the way time would write its little notes in your margins. It was hope pretending to be observation. When a friend asked later if you lived up to the hype, I didn't answer. I just kissed you outside the revolving doors, thinking if we kept spinning, nothing could land hard enough to break us.

But eventually, the spinning has to stop. You realize you can’t live in a revolving door forever, so you step out into the cold. Wear your heart on your sleeve—actually, just take the coat. It looks better on you. I’ll carry the bag. I know it’s a bit on the nose, trying to turn us into a couplet before the ink is even dry, but I’ve always had this hero complex.

Call it a cape, call it a heavy lifting habit; I’ve spent a lifetime auditioning for a rescue I wasn't sure was coming. I’m trying to be gentle with a wish this big. Most people call it luck because "miracle" is too heavy to carry up the stairs.

What time is it, anyway? I thought I knew sunsets, but this is a winter fire spitting sparks at the frost. We met in January, remember? I was a walking pile of wool and blankets, a soft fortress. But those layers were a joke compared to your hands finding mine. For a guy who never runs out of breath, I turned into a quiet, stuttering mess the second you knocked.

My heart was a bird hitting glass—panicked, sudden, and completely trapped by the light.

Now it’s night eleven. We’re swapping bomber jackets while the sky detonates; this violent shrapnel of gold. It feels right to call you Genesis. It feels right to drop the defensive crouch, lower my walls, and say: I’d love to build a house with you.

Even as I suggest it, I know the weight of the twenty years that came before. Love is mostly a long, agonizingly slow project in learning how to say goodbye without flinching. It’s a masterclass in letting go. You spend your "golden years" realizing that, eventually, no one is waiting at the terminal. There is no familiar face in the crowd. The trajectory isn’t a straight line; it’s a Slinky on a staircase; tumbling, silver, full of momentum, until it just... tangles.

A heap of metal coils in a heap of defeat.

And yet, look at us. Time keeps skipping and compressing. We turned into a story we told other people over drinks that tasted like chemicals but felt like closeness. We talked about death like it was traffic—just something happening elsewhere, and we talked about a child like a whisper the body sends ahead of itself. A notification from the future: You will love something fragile again. It felt like an invitation and a threat at the same time.

On Sundays, we’d walk the woods while winter still had a grip. Our boots were wide and clumsy, and we laughed at how committed we were to staying alive.

We wanted roses then; we wanted proof we could still bleed, that this wasn't just muscle memory. Your mind caught everything like a web, always humming. Mine just buzzed and flailed and sometimes went still. Sometimes I couldn't tell if I was being held or caught.

But I’m still here. I’m still reading the dark like it’s scripture in fine print, rubbing my eyes, squinting at the shadows, trying to find the one word that stays lit when the power goes out.

I think I’m looking at it.

 

And now—this part. A different room. A different ceiling.

I’m on the floor now, blue jeans crumpled beside me. The sky above me barely counts as sky; it’s just drywall pretending to be infinite. I lie here thinking, I built this. This soft cage. This sanctuary-slash-hiding place. Even my guardian angel, Nick (you have to call them something cute if you want them to answer) seems tired. I’ve worn him thin. I wanted him airborne and good in a crisis, but I keep him on call for small things. For praise I don’t trust. For comfort I don’t know how to take.

I haven't gone back to the places where my past tightens. I just know I still want to be impressive. I practice being interesting. I rehearse compassion so my voice doesn’t shake when it counts. I’m still auditioning for myself, trying to make varsity in a life that doesn’t keep score.

I remember the first time I saw a photo of a dead body. I don't remember the year, only that I was drinking peppermint tea. Something meant to say, You’re safe. I told myself not to let my heart outrun my body, but the heart never listens. That was around the time success started sleeping next to dread. Every good thing came with a falling dream. I’d wake up soaked, whispering affirmations like spells: You’re happy. You’re doing well. According to the metrics, I was. But I envied the "Champagne Men" in old movies—breaking glasses and laughing without consequence. Nothing cost them. Everything costs me. Even the tea.

 

I imagine the superhero version of myself hearing his name shouted from blocks away. He shows up fast, cape torn, mildly annoyed. The ego thanks him, but he waves it off. He wants flashier rescues, though no one ever asks him to fix the roads. No one claps for maintenance.

This is what I think about while walking past my own life: the embarrassment of trying. Still smelling like where I came from. Wondering if my best moments will fossilize into heirlooms or cautionary tales. Neon messages flash contradictory instructions: Go home. Come here. As if either one would save you.

Then, it hits all at once. Salt water. Summer asphalt. A slow dance I barely remember. Flat tires and flat lines. Sunflowers burning themselves open. Me, standing nearby, still in costume, thinking that wanting to save something might count as flight, even if it’s just falling with style.

 

One spring, you mailed me a tiger lily. Just one. And shamrocks pressed flat like they’d given up trying to breathe. You said beauty has to be restrained to survive. I thought: touching ruins things. Then immediately: touching wakes them. So which is it? You tell me.

I tried to seal us with gentleness and permanence at the same time. Baby powder and cement. I loved you. I loved this ridiculous, collapsing world. I also knew we’d sink like empires do; like small creatures half-buried, waiting for someone else to decide what we were.

I’m still standing here in costume, waiting for a rescue that looks like maintenance. 2016 was a long time ago to keep a fire burning. It turns out devotion and debris look exactly the same when you’re going down.