• It was so long ago.

    I was five years old, he was eight.
    We met because his mother volunteered at the group home I lived in.
    People always commented on how different we were. He was a beautiful brunette with sparkling green eyes and caramel skin. I was a pale blonde with sensitive irises the color of a dreary skyscraper wall.
    He’d call my name; “Eric!”
    And I’d turn around, excited to see my only playmate. Adults would always say, “What a wonderful young man, making friends with an orphan boy.”
    He was the only one who didn't pity me. He wouldn’t say nice things just to make me feel good, and he didn't tiptoe around any topic, including family. He was the only one I’d ever talked about family to.

    Come to think of it, he was the only person I talked to about anything.

    We were inseparable.
    For so many years we’d walk up that hill by the library and watch the overcast sky drift like leaves on water.
    The way he smiled with all his teeth. The blue scarf he always wore no matter how hot it was. The strangely quiet laugh that contradicted his bright personality. The feeling of his shoulder against mine as we stared up at the clouds for hours. Well, mostly.
    My eyes would inevitably wander down to his unkempt hair, his smiling eyes, his slim cheeks.
    And those lips I always imagined would taste like strawberry.

    I was wrong, he tasted more like mint.

    The first time we kissed was under his old orange umbrella by the bus stop on Haplen Avenue. It was really coming down, and I was too poor to buy a raincoat. He had just graduated high school and was planning to go to some big out-of-state university on a singing scholarship. I had barely passed freshman year and was considering dropping out. When I told him that, he
    just kind of got quiet.

    Then he leaned down and kissed me.

    He made me promise I’d stay in school until he came back. In return he promised to write and tell me everything about his time away.

    The first year was so hard.
    Even with the letters he sent nearly every week, even with the monthly phone calls, I still cried every night.

    It was so hard without him.

    Summer eventually rolled around, and he came back to visit for a bit.
    Those two weeks are the best memories I have. The stories he told me about dorm life, the walks that somehow always ended at the ice cream shop, the cloud gazing on our hill. He’d fall asleep up there sometimes, and I’d lay next to him telling him about how much I loved and missed him. He’d wake up and smile, then thank me for not leaving him there.

    I should have.

    Another year went by, and the letters came less frequently and started getting shorter. They were no longer about his big city adventures, but more about worries he had for the future. I tried to keep my mind off of how much I wished he was home. I joined a youth group and made many new friends. Girls were constantly flirting with me, and I eventually got a part-time job at a local bookstore.
    Summer was back, but this time he stayed by the university to pay off some debts he’d acquired.

    Eventually the letters stopped.
    I had read every single one at least three times, but it had been a while since I’d cried over him.
    My senior year of high school seemed shorter than the others. I had saved enough money to start payments on an old used Volkswagen, and I dated several girls.
    I had moved on.

    At least, that’s what I told myself.

    Graduation was more or less a blur. I’m pretty sure I didn’t drink, but I partied long and hard with the rest of my friends, all excited that we were finally out of high school.
    I started looking at career options. I didn't have many with my mediocre grades, so I decided on being a counselor at a camp for kids without families.

    Then I got a letter.

    He wrote about how he’d be in town soon and how he wanted to see me. How he wanted to talk to me.
    For some reason my heart leapt at those words, and I could barely sleep, I was so happy. Four days later I saw him getting off a bus near the library. I was on a date, but that didn’t matter. I told the girl I needed to take care of something and that I’d had a good time, then ran to our hill.
    He was at the top, watching the clouds.

    What was different about him?

    I climbed up and sat next to him. He didn’t look much different. Same messy hair, same blue scarf, same thoughtful expression.

    His eyes.

    They didn’t dance like I remembered.
    They were dull and empty, no longer smiling.
    Then he told me.

    “I’m engaged.”

    He turned to me and smiled. A dull, empty smile.

    “She’s a wonderful girl, you’ll get along great. Met her at the university. The wedding’s in October.”

    I couldn’t say anything. All I could do was look away. Tears welled up and I fought them with every ounce of strength I had.

    “I was never asleep.”

    His gaze returned to the gray sky. A raindrop fell my cheek.

    “I loved listening to you talk to me while I laid there. I knew you wouldn’t say anything if I was awake, so I pretended to be asleep.”

    Another raindrop.

    “Please don’t be sad.”

    More raindrops.
    He stood and offered to help me up. I just sat there.

    “I’m sorry.”

    Then he left.
    The ache was deep and piercing. I felt like my heart had disappeared entirely and left a gaping
    void in its place. The rain went on for hours, crying with me as if it knew what it reminded me of. I couldn’t think, I couldn’t feel.

    All I could do was cry.

    A few weeks later I saw him with his fiancé. They were at the ice cream shop; she would laugh and smile at everything he said.
    I went home and took out all the letters. Each one started “Dear Eric,” and ended “Love, Damian”.

    I burned them.

    He had an announcement party, which I was invited to. I put on a smile and sat among total strangers as he sang some Italian ballad that was supposedly her favorite. After his performance, I applauded and stood up to leave. He caught me at the door of the banquet hall.

    “Eric!”

    I turned around, afraid to see the only person I had ever truly trusted.

    He smiled and asked why I wasn’t staying for dinner. That dull, empty smile.
    I couldn’t speak.
    He took my hand and the smile faded into a expression of deep pain as he leaned down to kiss me.

    “I love you.’”

    And I left him there.

    They never got married. It turns out she had been seeing two other men for their money and gifts.
    She wasn’t such a wonderful girl after all.

    That was three years ago.

    Occasionally I’ll get letters from him.
    They always begin “Dear Eric,” and end “Love Damian”.
    And I always read them up on our hill, feeling nothing.
    No sadness, no joy.

    But I keep them all.

    And I still love him.