It’s been exactly 3 years.
You know, I was normal 3 years ago.
It’s been exactly 3 years, and 2 months.
It would’ve been better if we hadn’t snuck out.
It’s been exactly 3 years, and 2 months, and 14 days.
And it would’ve been better if you hadn’t tried to impress me by walking onto the ice.
It’s been exactly 3 years, and 2 months, and 14 days, and 10 hours.
But then you pretended to uproot a nearby tree.
And the branch cracked, and fell onto the ice, and the world stopped, just for a moment.
And then you fell like, like the football from the rooftop where I first met you, into the water and I stood there unable to move, frozen in time, the victim of shock.
And you yelled at me to get help, and I ran, I ran like the wind to get a phone, call the police, get some adults.
And when I came back you were out of the ice, on the snow bank, blue, cold.
It’s been exactly 3 years, and 2 months, and 14 days, and 10 hours, and 46 minutes.
I yelled your name, rubbed your hands, and you opened your eyes and looked at me for one last time, and the paramedic pushed me away trying to get you warm.
That pleading look, sad look, as if you knew this was the end, and something in me snapped in two.
And I watched you slowly slide into the realm of death where I knew I could not follow. You wouldn’t have wanted me to take my own life, even though the thought crossed my mind many, many times.
And you wouldn’t have wanted me to be lonely, even though I went through the rest of my life, cold and alone. I didn’t want love, I didn’t want friendship, I wanted you.
It’s been exactly 3 years, and 2 months, and 14 days, and 10 hours, and 46 minutes, and 12 seconds, since I last looked into your eyes.
But now it’s only a matter of time until I see you again, because, you see, I’m in a plane, that’s spinning downwards, into the ocean.
And the passengers are screaming, struggling to get their life vests on.
But I’m calm, because the thought of seeing you again is warm and welcoming.
And I don’t wear my life vest, even though an elderly man in an adjourning seat is pleading with me to put it on.
I know what you felt.
Shock.
Denial.
Pain.
Then peace.
I can’t wait to see you, again.