I didn’t know that I was into him right away. I knew that I liked the way he kissed his mom on the forehead every afternoon, as soon as he stepped into their apartment. I knew that I liked the way he twirled one of his curls around his finger like a five-year-old girl when he was trying to work out a really hard problem. I liked the way he tried so hard to fix everything: leaky faucets, hurt feelings, his math grade. And I knew that I fucking loved watching the way the muscles in his forearms flexed every time he picked up a pencil. But I don’t think I knew that I liked him, at least not for sure, until he kissed me the first time.
We were in his bedroom, studying for his midterm. I was solving for x when he made an O beside it in my notebook. I started gnawing on my thumbnail before I even looked up at him. He raised his eyebrows, grinned, and said, “You ever been kissed?”
I opened my mouth, but all of the smartass replies I usually have lined up were gone. I said “um,” and that was all he needed to hear.
Bram grinned even wider. He picked up his phone and started typing, and a second later, that cheesy song about kissing, the one from every nineties rom-com ever, was filling up his tiny room.
“Oh my god,” I said. “You’re not serious.”
He responded, “Dude, this song is awesome,” and started singing along.
I couldn’t stop myself. I laughed, loud. I stared at him, like he’d grown another head. And when the second chorus started, he narrowed his eyes and pushed his curls off his forehead. He looked serious all of a sudden.
“What?” I said. I was biting my nail again, because Bram was so damn cute and I’d never been kissed and he was licking his lips. He pushed my hand away from my mouth, and when I looked back up at him he smirked. Something about the light made his green eyes kind of sparkle. When he kissed me, I almost forgot who I was.
I didn’t even smile when he pulled away. I just grabbed his neck, yanked him back, and made out with him until my lips went numb.
“I’ve never even kissed a girl before,” I whispered to him. But what I didn’t say was that now I knew I never would. We were standing at the door of his bedroom, and my lips were swollen, my face rubbed red from his stubble. He’d just handed me my bag.
When our fingers touched, he smirked and tucked a pencil behind my ear.
“I fucking knew it,” he said. He kissed me again, his big, rough hand on my face like he needed me to hold still. A week later, we were official, and nine months after that, it was over.
I put my phone down and stare through Aden’s window. I can’t see the moon, just the top of a few buildings. And I wish I were on a rooftop. I wish I were anywhere I could say Bram’s name out loud. Make him real again, even for a second.
When I lift my phone again, I go to his online video channel, BRAM IS BORED. He started vlogging right before we got together, and by the end, he had thousands of subscribers. It’s funny because I was always the one who wanted to quit school and get famous, and Bram just wanted to play football and go to college. But my band broke up, and his channel took off. He became Internet famous, and I haven’t written a new song in forever.
I pull up the last video he posted, where he chugs an entire gallon of spoiled milk. It’s gross but also kind of funny. Plus, Bram looks good, even when he’s doing dumb shit. I’ve been a subscriber since he posted his first video, and sometimes I even commented, but he never knew it was me. Even when we dated, I never told him my username.
The views and comments on this video are blowing up. They always seem to surge whenever his face is on the news again, like everyone forgets that he’s fucking dead, and when they remember, they can’t shut up about it. But I’m watching too, as desperate to connect as everyone else. The difference is, I really knew him. We were in love.
I don’t know if it’s the booze or the stupid comments or the pictures of him smiling at me, but my eyes are suddenly pooling with tears. I feel angry and hot, sad and alone. I miss him, like we broke up last week and not six months ago.
I don’t know the rules, because he’s my only ex, but he kept our pictures. And the songs that I wrote and sang about him made me almost famous. So I click inside the comment box and stare at the blinking cursor. I feel like he deserves at least one honest message, even if it’s too late for him to read it.
Bram’s green- and gold-flecked eyes, his big hands, and his deep voice fill my head. I think about kissing him and about more than kissing him. I try to count how many times we said “I love you” to each other. And then I think about the thing I’m always trying so damn hard not to think about.
Our breakup. His face. The last words I ever said to him.
I swallow hard. I type out three tiny words, and I let them fly before I lose my nerve.
I’m so sorry.
Then I press my face hard into Aden’s extra pillow, hating everything. Especially myself.
I don’t know what I’d do if Aden woke up right now.
I shouldn’t be crying about another boy.
A dead boy.
Even if he was the first boy and only boy I ever loved.
SASHA’S LAST BLOG POST
lifeaccordingtoleuk
Dying flowers are the prettiest.
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BAMF // SASHA’S SENSES REVIEW…FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELTS
Looks like: a (New Age) boy band…
Sounds like: (with) damn good writing
Tastes like: Sour (Cabbage) Patch kids (this should be the new name for this band. You don’t even have to give me credit if you use it)
3/5
Sasha died three months ago today. Ever since, I’ve felt a little out of control.
But there’s something about music that tethers me to the rest of the world.
I’m screaming lyrics at the top of my lungs, so I barely even register the bodies pressing against me from all sides. The music is so loud that the bass is filling up my chest, so I can’t feel my always-racing heart. I know the faces onstage, the set list, and that the people on either side of me are loving every second of sound as much as I am, so I don’t have that clogged feeling in my throat that usually makes me want to sob or fight or run whenever I’m in a crowd.
Music is the only reason I can ever ignore the feelings that always have me on edge; that almost never leave me alone.
The set ends. I’m sweaty and smiling and tingly all over, and we’re all still screaming—we’re desperate for Fasten Your Seat Belts to come back and do one more song. But they can’t tonight because the schedule is packed, and when I pull up the invite for this show on my phone, I see that Rohan’s new band, Our Numbered Days, is up next.