Him and I

prologue

Pete pov:-

If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past few months, it’s that grief
might be the most powerful human emotion of them all.
More than anger, joy, or even love.
Maybe it’s because, in some way, grief encompasses all three, and then
some.
Anger is the simple one. How can you not be angry when something—or
someone—you love is gone in some way, shape, or form? How can you
keep yourself from screaming at the sky in pure rage that it’s not fair or
just? Yet no matter the amount of yelling or cursing, it doesn’t help. It just
continues to ache. Hurts more than I imagine being disemboweled would.
And the worst part of it all? It doesn’t make sense.
Even though death is a part of life, it’s too hard to understand—to
comprehend—why it’s necessary. And even though you know it’ll come for
all of us, no matter how hard you try, you’re never prepared for it. Not the reality of it, anyway.
The finality of it.
Then, there’s joy. That’s where the memories lie. The good times, and
maybe even the bad. The moments where this person made an impact on
who you are. Shaped you into who you are today. Something as simple as a
kiss on the beach, or the first time you tasted their baking. When they took
you out in their fancy car and taught you how to drive.
All those tiny moments build into a lifetime. So you hold onto those
memories. To keep yourself moving along when shit gets so agonizing, the
only thing you can do is take solace in the times that made you smile.
Happy. And even if it hurts, you still hold onto them, and pray that one day,
you’ll be able to look back and all those little moments won’t be nearly as
painful to think about.
And then love.
Well, this should be obvious.
The only reason to grieve in the first place is because of love. If you
didn’t love, care for, and even worship what or whoever it was that’s gone
now, the loss wouldn’t be devastating. But you did love. And that’s why it’s
so fucking unbearable. Like a limb being cut off, no anesthetic in sight.
Like trying to breathe, but instead of oxygen filling your lungs, it’s water.
And you drown in it.
Sinking deeper and further, not knowing if it’s worth the effort to swim.
Because what’s the point? They’re gone. No matter how hard you try or
fight or beg or plead, they’re gone. You’ll never see them again. All you’re
left with is the memory of their face, voice, and scent; only for that to also slowly fade with time.
Nothing will bring them back.
Or will it?
Because grief is complicated, as is any other human emotion. And in this
complication, there lies a subtle difference between the grief of losing
someone to death and just plain losing them.
I’ve felt that pain. Loss from death. I’ve been buried by it. Drowned in it.
I’ve felt like I’d never resurface or ever be the same.
Yet through the loss, I learned to cope. To survive, even when I didn’t
think I could.
But even death has nothing on losing someone who is still alive.
Knowing someone you love is still walking this Earth, going about their
day-to-day life, just not part of your life anymore.
That’s what I’m feeling right now.
As I look at him, standing at the opposite end of a church aisle.
The man I swear I’m meant to be with.
The man I can’t have.
My fucking stepbrother, who made me fall deeper in love with him
amidst the worst possible circumstance, only for it to all come crashing
down around us in a spectacular blaze.
I’d take the death of every loved one I have on this Earth over the feeling
of his eyes on me right now. Because this is more than just pain. It’s pure
fucking agony. It consumes every viable piece of my soul. Shreds it into
tiny pieces, with no chance of ever putting it back together the same again.
Because, as I stand here and look into his eyes, I’m overwhelmed with everything we don’t have anymore. I remember our first kiss. The first time
he touched me, and how it felt like I might die and go to heaven right there
on the spot.
I remember how it feels to fall asleep beside him. Wake up next to him.
Confide in him during some of the worst moments of my life.
All of it comes rushing to the surface with just one. Fucking. Look.
One look, and I’m immediately lost in his eyes. Drowning all over again.
Feeling all the things I’ve done my best to push down since life drove yet
another wedge between us.
Yet, even as I stand here, staring at him down the aisle of this church, I
feel a familiar fluttering in my chest. And hope rises, thinking that, just
maybe, third time’s the charm after all. Even when the past, our current
circumstance, and fate all seem to have different plans…maybe it could
happen.
But therein lies the problem with grieving for someone who is still very
much alive.
Those moments have the power to give you something you don’t get
when you’re grieving death.
Hope.
That things can change. Go back to the way they were before. That things
will be different.
That this love isn’t really lost for good.
But the thing they don’t tell you about hope when it comes to grief?
While it can be the thing that keeps you afloat, it can also be the very
thing that drowns you the fastest. And by the time you’re able to figure out you’re still sinking?
It’s already too late.