"Missing Him"
Phil runs his hand lightly across the black and white checkered duvet. There used to be someone who slept with that duvet. There is a stuffed bear that's crookedly set up against the pillows. There used to be someone who, for the first eighteen years of his life, fell asleep clutching that bear tightly to his chest. He had said he stopped because he found a replacement that was much better. Phil is almost able to smile at that memory. He sits cross-legged on top of the bed. Dan. Lately, Phil's mind has been invaded by thoughts screaming that name. When he goes to make a cup of coffee. When he watches TV. When he goes to work. When he goes to sleep – if his thoughts allow him sleep. If the images – the images of the man that name belonged to – would take a break from flickering through his every thought. They've had too many memories together. Too many, but not close to being nearly enough, Phil thinks.
Phil tosses the bear over and stares at its foot and sees the 1991 that's stitched there. He thinks of somewhere else he's seen this year etched onto something. He can see this image in his mind. This object, unlike the bear, has a dash next to it followed by four more numbers. Phil hasn't fully been able to shake the image away since he first saw it on the second worst day of his life.
The funeral was complete hell, Phil thought. It had caused it all to seem final. He hadn't known how he would be able to cope with Dan being gone. He had honestly thought it would literally be impossible. Such a large part of his life was gone. And he would always be gone, and this was the realization that caused Phil to have a panic attack before he was supposed to give the eulogy. He was rendered completely incapable of performing the eulogy, and Phil felt that he was disappointing Dan by not being able to do the last thing he'd ever be able to do for him. For the remaining time left of the funeral, Phil spent it shaking, inconsolable. He had given his best efforts at blocking everything out. He had tried forcing himself to feel numb. He had tried disconnecting his thoughts from himself. But Phil was never good at not caring. It was one of his dominant traits, and knowing Dan had only enhanced it. He thought about Dan in that coffin. And how he would begin rotting away sometime soon. He had figured Dan had the easier role in the whole situation. Dan was gone. He didn't have to feel ever again. But Phil was still here – left to feel this all-consuming, seemingly never-ending pain. He'd rather be rotting away.
Phil moves so that he's now lying on Dan's bed, face pressed against the pillow that Dan had used the most. He feels wetness on his cheek. He doesn't move to wipe the tear away. He knows there will be more. Lately, tears have being springing into Phil's eyes, unexpectedly. He's becoming used to it. He misses Dan so much. Phil can't stop thinking that. He aches with missing him. He misses every part about him. He pictures Dan's face. More tears escape and slip steadily down his cheeks. He thinks about Dan's dimple. That was his favorite part of Dan's face, and Dan had known it.
"Dan, you don't understand how lucky you are," Phil had told Dan on one lazy weekend. They had been sitting on Phil's bed, relaxed, both on their laptops.
"Phil. I can't always read your mind, you know," Dan responded, eyes still glued to his laptop. Phil's eyes were directed to Dan's face, though. Dan had seen something that made him smile, and Phil saw that dimple of his come out.
"You have a dimple," Phil stated, simply, still staring.
Dan had then turned his attention fully to Phil. "Yup. I do," Dan said, laughing. "Hey, Phil, you know, it's actually a mutation. I mean, I'm not supposed to actually have one. No one is," Dan explained.
"Okay, but I wish I had it. Give me your mutation," Phil jokingly demanded, causing Dan to laugh, again.
"You want my mutation?" Dan asked, smiling. "Well, I'm sorry. It's mine, and I'm afraid it's permanently attached to my face. Besides... you already have something of mine," Dan stated, his face wearing a more serious expression.
"What?" Phil asked, confused.
"You have my heart." Dan said, sheepishly. His face was still serious, but Phil couldn't stop himself from laughing.
"Oh my god, Dan."
"What?" Dan asked, laughing now, as well. "Too cheesy?"
"No... I mean, well yeah. It was pretty cheesy. But I like cheesy. If I didn't, I wouldn't be dating you, would I?" At this, Dan jokingly nudged Phil's shoulder. "It's adorable," Phil said, smiling. He stared into Dan's dark brown eyes. Those eyes had always reminded Phil of coffee. He had used to think it was simply because they were brown, but he realized when staring into them, in that moment, that it was more because they had a kind of comforting warmth to them. "You're adorable," Phil added.
"Whatever. You only love me because of my dimple," Dan feigned offense. No, Phil thought, I love you because you have the best sense of humor. Because you're smart. Because you're witty. Because you're sweet. Because you remind me of coffee. Because you're Dan.
"Well, you're pretty decent at kissing, too, I guess," Phil settled with saying.
"I'm perfect at kissing," Dan said, in defense. "Want me to prove it?"
"Yes, please," Phil said, enthusiastically.
They had leaned into each other, and Phil stroked Dan's dimple before their lips met.
Phil winces at the memory. Dan still has his heart. And that's what was making this so hard, Phil thought. He's never going to see that dimple, or that face again. Ever. He'll never hear Dan's voice again. He'll never have another conversation with him. His stomach lurches, and he feels that he might vomit. He keeps it down, though. He wasn't able to when he first found out about what happened to Dan, though. The very worst day of his life. It was a car wreck that took away Dan's life. Dan and Phil had woken up that day, not knowing how monumentally life changing of a day it was going to be. They kissed. Exchanged "good mornings". Then they left. And Dan died. Life could be unbearably unfair.
We rely on people too much, Phil thinks. Nobody realizes that until one of them is permanently gone. But Phil had relied on Dan to be there for him. He had relied on Dan to critique his videos. To help cook dinner. He had relied on him to make him happy. He had relied on him to just be there every morning. He had relied on him to be alive.
Phil forces his legs to move from the bed, and to carry him out of Dan's room. He goes to the kitchen, and forces his body to cook food, and to eat it, all the while shoving thoughts of Dan away. It hurts badly to think of Dan – to miss him as much as he does. He picks up his phone and texts a friend. He knows he can't let himself sit here, alone, left to drown in his thoughts. He often has to remind himself that even though missing Dan hurts – hurts worse than anything else ever could – loving him and knowing him was worth it all. He would never stop wishing for more days with him. He'd never stop questioning why Dan had to die after only living twenty-three years. But he had to remember how much he loved him. Phil had lived so fully during the years he spent with Dan. And Dan had, too. He has to remember those years. It's what carries him when nothing else can.