I fell in love, it was perfect. He wasn’t perfect, no, but I loved him none the less. He had a mop of light brown hair. He would say it's strawberry blonde, and I would tease him, telling him it was ginger. He refused to accept that is was that brown-ginger colour. He had bright blue eyes, with silvery lines dancing across them. There was one line, in his left eye, which reminded me of a crashing wave from the sea. He held the depths of the ocean in his eyes. He held my heart. He was immature at times, but that only made me smile more. He could make me laugh at the most basic of things, like picking up an amp, or laughing at nothing. He’d chuckle lightly when he was happy. God I missed that laugh.
I died in a car crash. I was 18. I had been driving for a while, but I wasn’t driving when we crashed, he was. The car flipped, I got crushed by the roof of the car as it caved in. It was a quick, painless death. He got bashed, bruised and broken. Yet, he survived. He still blames himself.
I sat, dead, in that hospital next to him for months on end. I couldn’t touch him but he was there and alive. I just wasn’t there for him. It was killing me. He laid there, tears running down his face, blaming himself completely about an incident I didn’t blame him for.
It’s weird, you may think I would hate him for taking my life away, but I don’t. Dyings not an end. It’s kind of like...well look at it like this. Life is a gift, given to you if you deserve it. Dying is like the time of that gift has run out. Life can be seen like chocolate. If someone gave you chocolate as a gift...it’s there until either you eat it or its goes mouldy. Whatever happens at some point it runs out. Life is like that, and for 18 years I treasured that gift, and now I have to let it go. And he had to let me go to.
He loved me, more than imaginable. He’d do anything for me, just to see the hint of a smile on my face. He loved me too much to let me go.
He left the hospital five months later; to return to the house we were sharing with some friends. No one knew what to say to him, and he didn’t know what to say to them, so he didn’t say anything. I wanted him to be happy. I wished I hadn’t hurt him like I had. I hadn’t meant to.
He didn’t move on. For weeks he sat, in his room. He didn’t speak to anyone, he didn’t eat, he didn’t live. His release was sleep. He almost looked like he used to do when he slept, a trace of that gorgeous smile on his face. I’d lie with him, head on his shoulder, just like we used to. I loved lying like that. It was peaceful, comfy and close. But he didn’t know I was there. One time he rolled over, into me. It was heart breaking, he couldn’t feel me, he didn’t know I was there, that I loved him and I wanted him to let go. I wanted him to be happy.
A year after the accident, one of my friends finally got him moving. They came upstairs opened the blind, got him showered and dressed and forced him to eat. She told him what I would have said, if I could. “She loves you still, up there in heaven, and she’d want you to be happy. She’d want you to live your life. She would never let you close if she knew what she would do to you once she left us. You know that don’t you?” He got up that day. He returned to life without me. I watched him grow and change. He wasn’t who he was, but he wasn’t dead any more.
He never fell in love again, I think he lived for me, because I didn’t.As long as he lived, I don’t mind how he spent his time.
I spent every day with him. Hurting myself because I was powerless but I felt like I needed to be there, in case he lost life again.
He lived to a ripe old age and then he died in his sleep. He sits next to me now, watching me over his shoulder. He loves me and I love him, and though we’re both dead, I think it's only now that we are both living.