His pillows smelled like fresh laundry. The way his sheets lingered over me makes me think about rubbing pearls on your skin and how it leaves you feeling revitalized, slightly airy. We lay awake at 1 in the morning, unable to rest. Our heads were facing away from each other but our bodies touched. There was a small night lamp shaped like a tree that hangs near the door, on the far side of the room. On his side.
His lips are made out of faultless curves. I wonder if he has ever gotten the feeling of wanting so badly to kiss someone. I wonder if that someone is me. I turn around. Trace the length of his back. His body tensed up, surprised. A minute later, he watched me watch him hold both of my hands, facing me.
A hand cups my right cheek.
“Hey,” a voice said.
The room suddenly seemed so little, I must have fallen asleep. My eyes closed for a second, adjusting to the darkness. My chest felt heavier… his voice must have awakened me (literally and figuratively). He played with the strands of hair that fall on my face and tucked it behind my ear. He smells like vanilla, I kept thinking to myself.
“What are you thinking about?” I asked, my voice hoarse.
He looked up, looked at me, and smiled.
“You,” he said, still smiling.
I kissed him, once. Just to satisfy my craving for his lips. “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” I said.
“Still, you like being lied to.”
“Like, when I told you I didn’t love you,” he said. “you were smiling.”
“That’s because you’re a terrible liar, I knew—”
“You knew it the whole time,” he finished.
He put his leg above mine, bear-hugging me. I shifted my body to come closer to him and pressed myself against his chest. I inhaled everything about him, not wanting to let go. We stayed like this for a while (we could stay like this forever).
“I’m thinking about how this world works, with all its monotonous twists and turns,” he said, finally breaking the silence.
I stared at the rise and fall of his lashes, unblinking. “I’m thinking about how we met—and grew, together,” he continues. “And how guilty I am not to see through you right away. Goddammit. You have the most beautiful soul. Even if sometimes you like to pinch my nonexistent arm muscles, talk in your sleep, and like to tell me if I’m being a little self-centered, which I am most of the time, as a matter of fact… You’re my favorite person. I’m a liar, and you know it, but now I’m thinking about telling the truth. The whole truth.
“I like to write about you,” he said.
“I’m thinking about writing about you again, and how I would name it. How about ‘Every Moment of It Shined’? Does it sound a little out of place? Hey, most of the time I’m not this expressive, so think of yourself as a lucky woman. Wait—how about…” and he went on and on.
It was months later when I realized what he really meant.
He was thinking about writing a eulogy.
(image from Pinterest user Behance)