Just a short story
I could write an entire novel about how much I loved him, about how it seems that a bittersweet memory stings just a little more than a plain bitter thought. Bittersweet memories lodge themselves in your brain, letting you remember the sweetness, but never without the accompanying ache. He and I will be carrying around each other’s stories forever, and I can’t help but wonder if he will still spare me a thought when he’s seventy. I know I will remember him, that I will find those Polaroid’s we took together, and think of how we stained our favourite albums with memories of each other. I will remember the time we snuck up onto the roof of the hotel and talked for an eternity about bittersweet things.
I will remember how we talked of how we were never destined to be anything but a slightly wistful memory. I will think of how badly we wanted to carry on and wonder why we didn’t. I will remember how we ignored the chance because we knew if we had tried, it would have changed the wonderfully unexpected dynamics of our relationship. The whole experience would have been smashed to pieces, a ship crashed against rocks mid-storm in the middle of an angry ocean.
He taught me the meaning of so many things, of love, trust, letting go, and acceptance. He taught me what it was to give in and to be brave and how ultimately rewarding it could be. I hope I see him again in ten-fifteen years, maybe we’ll each be married and in boring office jobs. We’ll grab a quick coffee on our lunch breaks, notice the lines around the others eyes, and remember how desperate and reckless our love story had been and how we felt on the roof when we talked of bittersweet things.