Remember that first song you sent me? It was 2am and it was raining so hard and I couldn’t hear a word but I told you I loved it. I never did ask you what it was and I always wish I had. We went to watch a film and I can’t remember a single second of it. You don’t know, but my eyes looked at the screen so hard I thought they’d come out of their sockets. I was worried you’d see right through me to my thudding, thumping heart. And that summer, our first summer, when we walked for miles to find the smallest canal and you asked me how you looked and the words got stuck in my throat. I wanted to say from the moment I saw you that morning, the rest of the world had blurred behind you and slowed down and silenced and I didn’t dare look up at you in case I couldn’t catch my breath and you’d know my lungs were doing somersaults for you. But I said fine. You looked fine. That’s how we were. You not asking what you really wanted to know and me not saying what I really wanted to say. And then one night in Autumn I desperately didn’t want to talk to anyone and you said you’d stay on the phone all night just to hear me breathing and I said snoring isn’t the same as breathing and you laughed so hard. Your laugh stole my heart right out of my chest. And I knew that was it. It was different. Like it was in all those movies, but without the music and the fireworks outside. I’d fallen. And from then on I’ve kept on falling. With you. By you. Next to you. Away from you.
And I’m screwed.