Seamus. Seamus O’Hare. How I loved you. That’s a lie. I still love you. If I made a list of the people who’d weep when I die, you’d be on it.
The first man to say he loves me.
That’s a big one, but I remember all the little things too. They’re somehow just as important as the I love you’s.
Your heater broke and we had to sit by the stove to keep warm. We moved your mattress next to the hot metal. You held me close because I was afraid of rolling into the flames while we slept. My protector.
We painted your landlord’s apartment while he was away. He said he’d pay you. You said you’d split it with me. You paid me in the form of pizza slices and kisses. A better bargain.
You never kissed me in public. You only placed your forehead on mine. It was enough.
My hand belonged in yours. Always. When I came back from university and you had a pretty girlfriend in tow, you squeezed my hand, my fingers lost in your grip. A little thing she didn’t notice.
When she left for home, you put your lips to hers. It looked so strange to see you kissing in the street. A pang of… hurt? Jealousy? She turned a corner, and you put your forehead to mine. This is ours.
He didn’t say he loved me again. But I suppose he didn’t have to.