Still The One

Fifteen

Never love anybody who treats you like you’re ordinary. – Oscar Wilde

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Fifteen
Four years ago – July 26, 2014

The funeral was intense. It was a week after he died that we went through with the burial. It had happened months ago, but I was hesitantly eluded that I still remembered every individual detail.

Only hours before the service, I had gotten ready at Harry’s place. At the time, I wasn’t ready to be alone. That would only cause my subconscious to overthink about Evan, and I couldn’t afford the constant cycle of breaking into tears every ten minutes.

Harry wore a very nice, presentable onyx suit, and a starless stare with a somber smile that he undoubtedly put on just for me. I knew that he was trying his best to keep a straight face, but inside he was just as sad as I was. Being the mindful boyfriend I was innately lucky to have, he put my feelings first.

I took my time slipping on my dark, raven dress, unable to properly function as I used to. It was as if my arms were heavier and affluently more helpless than they were a week ago. Harry sauntered beside me and fixed my fallen sleeve.

“It’ll be alright,” he said softly while he pressed his lips to the bare skin of my shoulder the dress had failed to cover. A slight chill had crawled to the very crest of my neck.

“You’re sure?” I dismally asked.

After he had zipped the zipper on my back, Harry replied, “I’m sure.”

I turned myself around to adjust his jet black tie in place. He looked nearly staggering; he always gave off a heart-stirring feeling to anyone who’d lay their eyes on him. Taking my hand in his, he was kissing every bony finger tenderly. I had instantly felt comforted. I rised on my tippy toes and planted a loving peck against his soft lips. Then we walked off together, ready to face whatever was ahead.

Dozens of people traipsed onto the funeral grounds – they ranged from family to friends to Icy regulars. I had recognized many faces; they all gave me tender, vicarious looks and soft, reassuring pats on my shoulder as they passed. It was all very nice. But my dark, cruel thoughts led me to believe that their words were only for show. And even a reasonable pack of the wealthy community saw to attend the services, while they sent good thoughts to Olivia.

Olivia.

Evan’s death was hell on my heart, but imagining what it did to his wife was devastating. For the rest of her life, she would have to greet the day every morning without him. Instead of arranging the table for two each evening, there would only be one set. And I imagined that the nights would be the worst; the inability to fall asleep on her own, as her bed seemed translucently empty. And then I began to envision our situations flipped, which was just a fraction of the pain Olivia endured.

How could I possibly live in a world without Harry Styles? The thought was almost poignant enough to make me consider ending things with him right now.