“Are you okay? For some reason, I
woke up feeling like something bad had happened to you. I wanted to make sure you're safe.”
I texted him.
“I’m fine. I’m glad you were
concerned,” he texted back.
“Good. I love you. Take care of
yourself.” I wrote back, a bit confused but relieved.
“I love you too. Please be safe.”
The next day, the car he was in crashed in to a tree, and he almost died. And the thought of the world without him
makes me cry.
He’s not supposed to be my boy
anymore. I don’t call him or talk to him, and he lives far away, and sometimes,
I don’t even think about him.
He’s crazy and too much and too
broody, and he doesn’t understand people and their motivations, which is about
all I seem to understand. He waves his arms around, and talks like an angry,
old, Italian man, and he never knows if he wants his hair to be long or short.
But he challenges me, keeps me passionately furious, fights with me, and for
me. He would do anything for me.
He flies airplanes; and he writes
long poetic prose; and he plays beautiful, well-rehearsed guitar; and speaks
Spanish with a Chilean accent; and he has a piggy bank that says “New Car Fund”
that almost breaks my heart to see; and he is electric like me. He bullshits
more than I do. He understands parts of the world that I cannot comprehend. I’ll always want to know what happens next in his story.
I’m so very happy he’s okay. I
don’t like the idea of a world without him in it. The world would impress me
far less if I’d never known a boy like that could exist, that he could love
me, and I could love him back - so beautiful and strange and intense and wonderfully weird.
Maybe my unexpected text, a day before, caused the accident, or maybe it’s what saved him.
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