Call Me by Your Name: Oliver Returns

Changes

Each Spring day was different. I'd wake up to a sun brighter than the waves of the Mediterranean Sea and a house filled with strangers– some I enjoyed, but most I would ignore. Pretend I was asleep or make as little conversation as possible. Most of my life consisted of small talk, strangers, music and sleep.

The aroma of my room smelled of fresh fruit, not of any specific kind, but a general smell of something cleansing. My room felt like a giant hug; warm and open. It helped me forget about everything. Its silence drowned out my fears and comforted my tears. I cried a lot, when I couldn't forget everything. When I saw his face in my dreams or heard his voice faintly coming from the other room. "Elio," His sweet voice called me from time to time and every time, I'd fall for my imagination's trick. I'd get out of bed and follow the voice. "Elio, are you awake?" The voice would grow clearer as I walked closer to what was once his room. And it vanished as soon as I stepped in to find his bed empty. To find the room empty. To see that nothing was out of its place and all traces of him were erased. Cleaned and dusted. Everything was organized and polished and it made me feel sick.

"Oliver," I would call back anyways. Even though my eyes were showing me reality, my heart never got the memo. I would not allow myself to forget him. To not hear him. To not feel him. My imagination and the memories were the only things that protected me from heartbreak. I always wondered if he thought of me the same way. If in his head, I was calling his name. If when he heard my voice, he followed it until he realized I was not there. If he spoke back anyways. If he missed me. I wondered these things. Such wonder could kill a man.

Wondering could have killed me faster than the fact that he was getting married in only a few weeks.

Although each day had its surprises, every night was the same. I crawled in bed and sat for what felt like hours. The only source of light was the blurred moonlight peaking in from the balcony, and spilling in from my window. Beside me laid Billowy, Oliver's light blue shirt that he let me keep as a reminder. It was the best and worst gift I had ever received because it made me incredibly happy, yet hopelessly sad. His scent was all over the shirt, and I would let my tears caress the few wrinkles on it. How silly of me to treasure a shirt. To hold my happiness in the smell of his body that stained the inside of the shirt. How silly.  Sometimes, I'd laugh myself to sleep thinking of how ridiculous all of it could have appeared to an outsider. To someone who had never fallen in love. To someone who had never lost and grieved. To Mafalda who I'd plead to never wash the shirt because it would rid of Oliver's smell. The shirt was like a person to me. I named it "Billowy" for Heaven's sake.

How terribly silly of me.

"Darling, won't you go out this morning?" Mother, in all her youth, seemed a little older and weary at breakfast when I'd come down to eat. She'd ask me the same question, only using different words. "Do you want to do something today?" or "Why don't you and Marzia see a movie or go to the bookstore some time?" Both Papa and Ma were concerned about me, however Ma was the only one that voiced her worries. Papa would study me. Just stare until I met his glare. Then, he'd look down at the newspaper he held in his lap, and I'd continue eating.

Just like how she asked the same question, I gave the same excuse. I shrugged but tried to give her an encouraging smile. "I'm so tired. Honestly, I'd be no fun." That was the truth, technically. I was tired, and when I am tired my company might as well be no company. I was tired, not from moving a lot, but rather from sleeping a lot. The more I slept and kept to myself, the more I desired to sleep and keep keeping to myself. What a vicious cycle.

Ma and Pa stole glances at one another as if they talked about me with their eyes. They pitied my loneliness which only made me more upset.