It was October. We met under the bleachers as football fans from our little town were seated above. Your T-shirt advertised the high school team, even though we wouldn’t be ninth graders for another three years. You liked my friend, but he wandered off with your friend, so it was just the two of us. The aluminum stands started shaking as people stomped along with a cheer led by the pom-pom-holding popular girls we would come to envy.
“The world is ending. Come quick! The sky is falling. Follow me!” you lied, grabbing my hand and leading me to a quaint dark section underneath the cheering townspeople. You were playing pretend, and I forever longed for an escape from my reality. We were a perfect match.
–
In twelfth grade, I grabbed your shaky hand backstage at the talent show. I eased your fears about performing in front of our classmates. I wasn’t scared because you were next to me. We named our characters Pancake and Syrup, which was so corny, but it made us laugh for years to come. Ever since then, I could remind you of Pancake and Syrup, and we’d be right back in that moment, an inside joke that would last a lifetime.
“I’m sad we won’t get to see each other next year when we’re at college,” you said.
“I’ll visit all the time,” I lied as I led you onstage into the light.
–
At twenty-two, I called you on the phone from my new city. My heart was racing, and I was afraid to say the words out loud. You could hear the fear in my voice and quickly took hold of the conversation until I was at a calm 59 BPM.
“I’m gay.”
“I love you,” you replied.
–
We lived in the same city again a few years later. Our first New Year’s Eve was planned—a dinner party and a couple of bar stops. I wanted to run into my crush, so we headed his way. You poured us too many cocktails, and my rude side came out.
“Go home and get some sleep,” I said as I closed the cab door and directed the driver to your apartment. If I’d had two fewer cocktails, I would’ve ridden passenger to ensure you stumbled home okay. Cocktails sometimes got in our way.
–
You knocked on my door in the spring, with swollen eyes after a fight with a boyfriend. We sat on my bed and talked through each detail. By midnight, we were laughing about nonsense and planning our elaborate futures. We promised to let men come and go, and you assured me that we would be on our rocking chairs at the end, laughing about our nonsense.
–
Our first vacation together was my favorite. Another October. Twentysomething bliss. Our eyes filled with happy tears as we laughed uncontrollably and sang old Cher songs at the top of our lungs for three days straight. We had great travel chemistry and always loosened up when we were far from our responsibilities. Getting away was good for us. We needed to reconnect. I told you about a new guy I was dating, and we stayed up late trying to decide whether he was worth it. You were single, so you encouraged me to kick him to the curb. I did. He was collateral damage.
–
Not quite thirty, we were packing a truck with the things you’d collected over the years. You were headed back to the city with the bleachers, and I was moving in with my new, other, other half. Things hadn’t been the same for a while. I went down one road, you took another, and each passing moment, we lost a bit of what made us special. If the love we started with weren’t enough to last a hundred lifetimes, we would’ve become strangers.
–
You visited for a weekend shortly thereafter, one foot in your new life, the other firmly planted in the one we had together. My depression was strong, but through the fog, I saw your face, and it grounded me. You were the only one I told because you felt safe. I wished you didn’t have to leave.
–
Our bimonthly calls became painfully routine during our early thirties, and no longer being tied together by geography was a challenge for us. I asked about your dates, and you politely championed my career achievements the way a new friend thinks they’re supposed to. Those elaborate futures we’d imagined years ago looked nothing like what we’d built.
–
You had an issue with your folks in 2019. Although you had a new boyfriend whom you loved, he didn’t know them yet the way I did, so you called me.
“I don’t know what to do,” you cried.
“I love you,” I replied.
–
Just shy of thirty-three, you rang to tell me you were engaged to the man of your dreams. The two of you were heading to yet another city for a fresh start. Despite the physical and emotional distance, you asked me to be by your side when you told him you do.
“I wouldn’t miss you walking down the aisle,” I lied unknowingly.
–
The world changed six months later. You called me from a car in your white dress, minutes before you would have a new ring on your finger. It took a pandemic to make me miss your wedding day, but I knew you were in good hands with your eventual husband. He would hold you as your heart soared.
–
November 2020. Things kept getting worse, and it had me thinking about you. I drank straight from a bottle of merlot, listening to that old Cher song we liked, and I remembered the nights we had too much together. I missed your rude side. I was feeling too emo to call, but I chased a shot of vino with a text to your phone. It was an old photo of us at a bar, young and happy. You hearted it.
Someone who lived in my building passed away that day. I didn’t know him, but someone did. Someone calmed him when his heart raced, and now his other other would be without him. The news said things were worse than we thought. Everyone walked around in masks, but at least our eyes were free, right? Maybe it would be better if the masks covered our eyes so we wouldn’t have to see the tragedy around us.
–
Christmas is extra tough. I hope Judy is right that someday soon we all will be together. I’m sentimental for holidays past, when we were in the same town, and you would come over and see my parents. You would hug my brothers and kneel to say hello to my young nieces. You fit in with my family because you are my family. I daydream about a normal Christmas, surrounded by the smiles of everyone I love. I’m nostalgic for moments that I’m not even sure will ever happen again.
The sky feels like it’s falling again. The bleachers are shaking, and I know one of your hands is tied up with holding your husband’s hand, your daughter’s hand, your parents’ hands, your siblings, your other friends, but could I have the other? Could I follow you into the darkness one more time? I’ll bring along the people I’m holding with my other hand, and we can all muddle through together. Is there enough room under the bleachers? It’s been a couple of years since I’ve seen you in person, but none of that matters right now. Even if your mask is on, I’ll remember your eyes. I’d recognize them filled with tears, love, disgust, or fear, and you would recognize mine—they haven’t changed too much. Not many people have seen every look in my eyes, but we have the nights and years on our side. We have the I love yous and the inside jokes and the phone calls. We have Pancake and Syrup. If the sky falls, it would be okay because we were lucky to have enough friendship to last a lifetime, filled with the good and the bad. Maybe the sky needs to fall to bring us together again.