I have a story to tell, it's rather long and rather cliché. But what if I told you the cliché you will undoubtedly recognize is because of my story? It exists because I do, would you believe me? Most people don't. How can a fella who looks no older than his mid-twenties be the half of a whole that creates that godforsaken notion of star-crossed lovers?

I suppose I could start out with "Once upon a time," or "A long, long time ago," and they'd both be fairly accurate. At least it's felt like it's been a very long time since I've experienced having the love of my life actually in my life. It's been ages since I've felt their gaze linger on my form, lock with my own, and share smiles and glances that are a language all of our own creation. Lifetimes since I've held their hand, felt their lips pressed against mine, or merely shared an embrace.

I ache. I ache in a way that no mere words could ever truly capture its deepest fathomed existence. I'd be feeding you more and more clichés just to give you the barest glimpse of understanding.

I should be honest though, it's not an easy story to tell. I may make you laugh and cry, or get angry and shout. Or I'll make you ponder the truest meaning of the word love. You see that notion of setting someone free to see if they'll return, well it's true. The same can be said for wanting someone to just be happy, even if it means you're watching from the sidelines as they go through life with someone else, someone who isn't you.

It hurts, but then again, old Bill said that the course of love never did run smooth or something like that. I don't know, I'm no good at words sometimes.

Or I could be lying. I could be merely recalling a dream I once had. A rather vivid dream if we're still being honest with each other (which I am, mind you).

It was one of those dreams that you felt with every fiber of your being as if it were your reality. The kind of dream that leaves you gasping for breath you'll never catch, and a yearning in your heart that will never cease because everything was so true, so deep, and so very real.

Let me ask you a question, just hear me out though, 'cause I'm certain once I start with it you're going to scoff or think I'm being ridiculous, do you believe in the one that got away? Or that there's one person out there for everyone? Would you do anything – and I mean anything – for that person?

Okay so it was a few questions and they're all rather common place it seems. I know, I know believe me do I know.

I'm sorry; I was going to tell you a story, that's what you asked of me.

You know of the greatest love stories yeah, you know the ones I mean too. They're in all the plays, books, and films. The ones that create delusions of a grand romance for the rest of you that will never get the chance to experience.

That was harsh, but it was the truth. I won't apologize for it.

Now, you wanted to hear my tale of how I got here and looking so down in the dumps, well I'll tell you, but like I said, it's not going to be easy (for the both of us).

We met when we were young, as most of these tales seem to start out. I was twenty-one when I first met him. I guess we weren't that young, but with the span of lifetimes it seemed we lived, it was young for us.

He was a quiet fella, but one of those rare, genuinely good types. I had just finished my awful rendition of some Journey song for karaoke night. I wasn't drunk but I was more than a little buzzed; it was the only way my friends would have gotten me up on that stage. I was winding my way back to our table through the maze of tables when someone abruptly got up from their seat. I tripped into their chair and knew I was going down. I said my goodbyes in my head as I was going down, but I felt arms grab me from behind.

I slurred out a thank you and attempted to move but the hands holding onto my arms had yet to let go. I turned to get a look at the person who caught me and was now refusing to let go of me. I saw blue. The most gorgeous shade of blue I had ever seen another person possess for an eye color. I'm not the kind that would wax poetic about something, but man, those eyes made me want to.

He asked if I was okay and where I was headed. I told him I wasn't drunk and I wasn't a damsel in distress. He told me his name. I said I didn't ask for his name and continued on my way after I roughly shoved him off.

Like I said, it was a cliché first meeting. A bar, one of us drunk, but I wasn't drunk so I'm not sure if it counts now.

Anyway, I've got friends okay, I was there with them. Even if all those two were interested in doing was getting into each others' pants, but I digress. I bailed earlier than I wanted to, but how long can you stand being the third wheel to a honeymoon phase couple? It was obnoxious at best, and had me questioning my life choices at worst. Why didn't I have someone that I could make those stupid eyes at? Someone that I could share little laughs with? Give and take intimate touches?

I wish I could tell you that once I left the place it was a cool night so that the chill of the night's air sobered me, but it was the end of summer. Whatever sweat I had accumulated inside had now amplified once I started walking back towards campus. Yeah, that's right, I said campus. I met him in college. Apparently young adulthood is the time when many meet their perspective lifetime partners, I was no different it seemed.

I wasn't a freshman, I was a junior actually, but my sweetheart, he was. While I only had two more years till I graduated, he had four. I stuck around his last two years. By the middle of my last year he and I were living together – not as roommates either. We were lovers in every aspect of that word.

As I was saying, I was heading back to campus and to whom do I run into at the dorm gates, him. I said something that made me look like a real asshole but I can't remember. He laughed though, and dear lord that smile, that smile left me breathless. I learned that he was an art major – a freaking art major! I was in business with a minor on political science – it was expected of me. It's not what I wanted to do with my life, but with a family like mine, enlisting in the services is something they try to avoid at all costs. Apparently we're too important and should let the other people enlist to protect those of us that are the better of our kind.

Yeah, I know that's a load of bullshit. I never said I agreed. Needless to say, when he said he already knew who I was, I wasn't surprised. Everyone knew who I was; such is the life of a Senator's son.

Yes, that's my old man.

Moving along though, I started to see him everywhere. I hated it. Sure he was handsome and left me momentarily breathless, but I didn't want any of my stupid girlish notions of romance to circulate around or be about him. I know I'm no dame, just follow me okay?

I hadn't had any luck with roommates, so I knew this year's was going to be another flop. I was wrong this time. He was actually pretty cool though, smart and kind, if a little on the eccentric side. He was into one of those sciences you need a big brain for. He had a few friends over at the time and I nodded my greeting to all of them and then went into my room. I guess I lucked out that year.

My first class was at eight that semester, so I would always go down to small café, you know the kind, student run via the school's generosity. Who would be manning the counter that morning – my hero. Don't get me wrong, I still thought him handsome, but I thought my fuzzy mind had supplied his all American look. I was wrong. He looked like he came from a catalog my ma used to get from those big department stores. His blonde hair was parted to the side, cut short, and boy was he fit. His clothes fit him well too, hugged and displayed his physique better than if he was walking around naked; which was saying a lot because the clothes he chose looked like they came from my grandpa's closet.

He wrote 'Asshole' on my cup's sleeve. I left him five bucks in the tip jar.

That was a repeated performance every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday that semester. I come from money so leaving him the money didn't bother me, plus as an art major, he needed all the help he could get.

Turns out though my roommate is a friend of his, I came back from class one afternoon and found him admiring my literary collection. I didn't acknowledge him at first, but he didn't let me get into my room before he said something to me. He told me the stories his friend told him about his roommate didn't fit with the asshole image I had going for me. I was apparently too nice to be the asshole I depicted myself as. He said he could read me, had done so the night he caught me from falling to the floor.

What did that guy know? Nothing. Everything. I don't know, I didn't care. I knew that I had wanted to shove him up against my bookshelf and stick his tongue in my mouth.

Our paths crossed more and more. I learned more about him and he learned more about me. It took a few months before we would actively call each other a friend, but by then it was so much more than that.

I had used my connections to look him up. Find out his pedigree so to speak. His father was killed in action and his mother was a nurse – dead too. Her name was familiar, in the sense that I had heard it in passing growing up. Then it clicked – Rogers – she was my dad's best friend in childhood. I know that wasn't her maiden name, but I knew that name because she chose a Rogers over my dad. When she got married he cut all ties with her, but we'd get a Christmas card every year. I had looked up the former Mrs. Rogers' death date – that would explain the week my dad broke down a few years ago. He had loved her, before he met my ma of course.

This guy was the son of the woman who had broken my father's heart. I couldn't bring him home. I couldn't even be seen with him. It would ruin my dad.

Look, I know I'm an asshole and I know that, but wait for it okay, it's going to get better soon. I chose love okay, I chose love over my family and I lost everything. You happy now, you got it out of me? That's why I look like hell frozen over and thawed unevenly.

I could tell you all about the good times and bad times he and I had together. Especially the first night we spent in our apartment. I could tell you that I have never felt that loved, accepted, appreciated, and cared for in my entire life as I did the first time he and I had sex.

I could tell you all about the foreign cities we explored together. About how his eyes would light up at the variety of people he could sketch and learn about. How his smile made all of those sunrises and sunsets dim in comparison. When my hand was in his nothing else mattered.

I didn't care that my father had the general population thinking that this was just a phase I was going through. That I'd see the error of my ways and find a suitor more appropriate for my standing.

It wasn't all sunshine and roses. We had our fights and disagreements and man were they explosive. I would never offer to take him home to meet my folks, and if any family member were to come for a visit, well, he never met them either.

One election year my dad's campaign actually came close to campus, so naturally, to show the country that he was the family man he appeared to be, he scheduled a visit. I wore nothing but my finest clothes and I interacted with very few of my peers – my sweetheart included. I was the asshole I dictated myself as.

Naturally my sweetheart didn't stand for that and he let me know. He also let my father know that he wasn't intimidated by him. He told my father that I was such an amazing person and I should be appreciated much more than my father allowed himself to show.

That was our worst fight, it was also our last. It was so ugly, the words my father used against my sweetheart, and the silence I let into the gaps. My silence yelled my answers. It let my father know that he still held me under his thumb, and it let my sweetheart know that he was far too good for me. But he mistook my silence for something else. He thought my not saying anything on the matter was me choosing my expectations over my selfishness. Loving him was the most selfish thing I've ever done and he knew it.

Four years is a long time to spend with someone and have nothing to show for it. He taught me a lot about myself. He taught me how to be passionate about life, how to actually live it instead of just going through the motions. He showed me that it was okay to ask for help, that it didn't make me weak or less of a person. He let me love him to the utmost of my capabilities.

We had seen each of us graduate with top marks and honors. We saw a few of our friends get married – something he and I spoke of often. We even met the first child of many of our friends as they embarked on their next great life adventures. We were going to have a small ceremony, no one but ourselves and the appointed witnesses because we weren't pledging our love to a room full of people, just to each other. We didn't need a hundred or so people to witness it for their own selfish desire for a showing of affection and dedication. We wanted to try a surrogate first, but adoption was always on the table.

I said that was our last fight because it was. Don't give me that look, I've seen it plenty of times. He's not out there, not anymore. And yes, that's exactly how I mean he's not out there anymore.

Remember, I ache. My heart knows no limits on how much it yearns for his love to fill up the void left behind. My fingers don't know how to rest without having danced along the planes of his body, playing him like a piano – our favorite instrument. My ears know no sound purer than his voice. The greatest symphonies could be heard every day, I could stand amongst throngs of cries of newborn babies, and nothing would soothe me like his voice. Even just a whisper from him would give me some solace.

I wish I could tell you it was cancer or even suicide that took him, but I can't. It was something so stupidly mundane that took him. You see, that last fight we had, after my father had left our apartment, he had worked himself up so much that he triggered an asthma attack. He hadn't had one in decades and hadn't thought to have an inhaler on hand. I didn't know what was happening because he had enclosed himself in the spare room, his studio. I heard things crash to the floor but I thought he was just angry. It wouldn't have been the first time his things were thrown in a fit of anger.

Look, just hang on for a few more minutes, please? What if, what if all of this was a dream, huh? What if this was one of those dreams that felt so real, like you actually lived through all of this?

The expression on your face tells me you know exactly what I'm talking about.

I lived five and a half years in that dream – five and a half years! But it wasn't a dream.

I was older when I went to bed last night, and when I woke up this morning it was the morning of the night when I first met him. You see, tonight my friends and I are going to go to the place across the street for their karaoke deal, and I'm going to sing a Journey song and when I'm making my way back to the table I'm going to trip and when I do, he's going to catch me.

He's alive and if I don't, if I don't go tonight, he'll never die because of me. He'll never meet me and I can, I can hold on to the five and a half years I had of him if it means that he, that, that he actually gets to grow old.