He never did, and I think that’s what broke me. Looking back, I think it’s my fault. I was the one that asked him out. I was the one that his parents hated.
They said they never wanted their son to be “just another queer”. His parents never wanted him dating a guy, and I guess it was worse that it was me. Me, the family friend. Not a friend anymore, but I had known them for so long. Me, the kid they said they trusted and I haven’t heard from them in over a year. They blame me. I would too.
I loved their son. And he loved me back, I know he did. I remember him coming to me so many times, always late at night. We would hide under all the blankets on my bed, and he would tell me how his mom would shit talk me and warn him about me. He told me he didn’t care, but I know he did, at least a little. I thought just by listening, I was doing something. I wasn’t doing shit. I wasn’t trying, not really.
Once, his mom hit me, and I never told him that. I was waiting for him after work and she just walked up to me really passive aggressive and asked me to break up with him. I mean, was she fucking insane to come up to me like that, while I was in my car? Who does that? She grabbed me, right by my shirt, and yanked so hard my face slammed onto the car door. You know, the part where the window slides down. My nose started bleeding, but she decided to smack me on my face too, just for good measure I guess. She told me, “Hope that’ll get my message to you.” I didn’t say anything. I just drove away. I didn’t text him that day, or that week. I didn’t see him.
And it killed me. It fucking killed me to stay away from him while I watched my phone on silent light up with another call or another text from him. The next time we talked, he decided to show up at my house. I answered the door and he stood there, and I started crying. His eyes were red and all puffy and I knew he had been crying. It was because of me, and I knew that. I pulled him inside and we just sat on the floor and cried in front of each other for so long. My nose was still bruised and he touched it and asked what happened. I didn’t want to tell him, and I didn’t have to. He could tell, I guess. He got up and reached out his hand to help me up.
A week passed and he never answered my calls or texts. I figured maybe he’s just bitter, he’ll come around. I laughed it off and thought to come over to his house like he did for me. I knocked on the door with a smile and he answered. I knew, I knew something was wrong. It was in his face when he opened the door. He held back tears and said me, “I’ll see you, okay?” I tried to pull him into a hug, kiss him, hold him, anything. He just shook his head at me and closed the door. I told him I loved him through the mail slot, and that I would wait for whenever he was ready to see me again.
I was woken up by my alarm the next morning and I checked my phone. I couldn’t count the number of missed calls. I decided to call my mom back first; her calls were at the top of the screen.
She told me that he was dead.
(beat)
I called everyone back. I called him. I called him so many times my phone battery died. I got so fucking angry because I thought maybe his mom killed him out of rage or something. I got in my car and almost knocked the door down when I got there. His mom opened it and she was crying and I was crying. I thought she would hit me again. But, for the first time since I got together with her son, she showed me kindness. She told me, “He committed suicide last night.” Then, she slammed the door in my face as I fell onto the steps. It was so early in the morning, I could still see the moon in the sky.
I like to visit his grave sometimes. I always put my hand right over his name. I say to the stone, “Reach for me,” and he never does.
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