the month of december (bxb)

only to see how sad our fate truly was

you, keaton henson
DECEMBER 20TH, 2019
TWENTY TWO YEARS

In the month of December, you will finally be free.

It was not meant to happen like this. It wasn't, and I knew it deep down. No, we were meant to see each other in Rome or Naples, bathed under sunlight, not snow, and running freely without Seth's stumbling steps or closing eyes. He was meant to have a head of hair, this time wilder, because I had always loved the way it curled around his ears and fell across his brows, and he was going to have these wide, wide eyes of light and life that never go out. That was how it was meant to happen: our meeting again.

Not like this.

Never like this.

I sat beside him, I remember, on that chair that he liked to draw on. This time I had scooted it closer to him so that my head was on his stomach, and his fingers worked in these small, soft motions within my hair: round and round and round and then stop, to switch to the other direction. There was a silence that had settled on us, and the snow outside could be heard: the soft crunching of it beneath the footsteps of New Yorkers, and the bustling winter traffic that wrecked havoc across the city. But Seth liked it like that: the window perched slightly open so that the cold seeped in and stole our warmth, snatching it menacingly. I shivered slightly, and Seth laid a hand on my cheek as though to warm me. But he was no longer of warmth like he used to be. The sun, it seemed, did not thrive in the harsh winds of winter.

"You're cold, Seth." I spoke with concern, pushing up onto my arms so that I could examine his face. There was a weariness to it: the skin of the sun dull, his eyes nearing a close, his lips chapped—so chapped that they had cracked, and left small wounds of red across them. His cheeks were hollow and gaunt, and they sunk in the edges of his circular, round face. "Shit, you're really cold."

"I don't feel it." His voice was scratchy, barely audible. It strained him to talk, I could see, for his face pulled into a grimace when he did so.

"Hey, hey," I began, "you don't have to say anything, okay?" I remember pulling the covers over him more, tucking him securely. He had laughed lightly at that, and then erupted into a fit of coughs and hacking. "Do you, uh, want some water?"

"Yes please."

I gave him a glass, and held it to his lips. He was too weak, by now, to hold it himself. The last time he'd tried it had fell across the sheets, the glass hitting the barrier beside the bed.

"Better?"

"Honestly? No." My face dropped. "But then again, I may never get better."