Fifteen Years and Counting

They were sitting on the playground, actively avoiding each other. Who knew it was possible for eye contact to be awkward in kindergarten? She twirled her pigtail and brushed off her navy blue skirt. He picked his nose and ate it. He knew she was looking at him.

In second grade, he asked if she would like to help him draw a picture. They scribbled and doodled, and he teased her drawing.

In fourth grade, they ate lunch together. Every day, he saved her a seat while she waited in line to get her sandwich. When she didn’t have money one day, he gave her his pudding and acted like he wasn’t hungry. She insisted that they share.

In sixth grade, they held hands. After school he would walk her home and do their homework on the front porch. She was good at English, he was good at Math. They both loved Science. Her mom would watch as they laughed and played. She knew.

In eighth grade, he finally kissed her. She stubbed her toe when they were fishing at the lake. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh, or be concerned because he thought she was cute when she was worked up about something. When he went to check on her, she looked up and her watery eyes glistened. He couldn’t help himself and just kissed her on the lips. After that, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

The two were attached at the hip. She trusted him with her life and he would do anything to see her smile. He was with her through her first PMS phase, and she high-fived him for his first armpit hair. He held her hand when she needed stitches for the first time, and she held him close when his dad got really sick.

Two weeks after her 17th birthday, he took her to their favorite spot. The open field and bright, starry sky made them feel like they were the only ones on Earth. It was so peaceful. He looked at her innocent face and admired every aspect. He could still see the eight-year-old girl twisting her pigtails at recess. They lay on the blanket in silence. Feeling the warmth of one another. Noticing the breath of the other. She turned to him and whispered, I love you.

His eyes remained closed as he whispered back, I know. You’ve loved me for a long time, but I loved you first.

And with that, he embraced her as they made love for the first time. Young, sweet, love.

The two were calm, and sure. He kissed her slowly and moved his hands along her stomach, encircling her navel.

Her fingers caressed the back of his neck as she sucked on his lower lip. She could feel the hormones pumping through her body as he moved on top of her.

First his shirt, then hers. They moved in sync with only the light of the crescent moon to guide them.

His soft, unsteady lips traveled down her chin to her neck, and eventually her breasts. When he returned to her ear, he propped himself up on his elbows and looked her in the eyes. She was ready.

Slow, smooth movements. A rush of warmth as goose bumps formed up her back. He loved her even more than he thought was possible.

Long nights turned into early mornings and by her 23rd birthday, she spent her days helping him in and out of bed. His legs grew weaker every day as she grew stronger. It wouldn’t be long until he couldn’t move at all.

They passed the time laughing, talking, eating, and thinking. Fifteen years had passed since they met in second grade. He was her best friend, and she was his rock. They planned their life together and he made her promise that she would love like this again. It made her mad to hear him talk like that, but she promised.

The moon was bright that night. She stayed next to him until he gasped for the last time. When her tear drop hit his cheek, silence filled the room.

She was broken.

She was alone.

He was gone.