i still haven’t fully unpacked since i moved. i find myself searching that room for things quite often.

each time i look, i find pieces of her. not because i search them out, but simply because you have held on to so many of them.

when i first moved in, i went looking for paper. i saw notebooks and was grateful you had so many, there was bound to be one with empty pages in it.

unfortunately, the ones i picked up were full. i must have gone through each one until i got to the middle of the row, where there was finally an empty one.

as i flipped through the first half, i caught sight of her name, over and over. my eyes lingered too long on some pages, full of love notes and details of weekends spent together.

i felt queasy. i ripped my blank paper out to write you a note before i went to work and shut the door.

when we cleaned it together, you wouldn’t let me throw her pieces away. not the pictures, not the notes. we went down the entire row, book after book, and as i went to throw them away, you held onto them.

i wonder why. i don’t understand why you would want to keep pieces of someone who was so unwilling to make you a proud part of their life. even i don’t hold onto the pieces i could have kept of my first love.

my most recent search in the room was for a game case, one i wasn’t able to find anywhere outside of the piles of boxes. look through them, you said. that’s where it’s got to be.

so i looked.

there’s so many more pieces than i thought. looseleaf papers burried in the bottom of boxes, full of her name, of more weekends, of professions of love.

once again, i felt sick.

there’s just so many, it’s overwhelming. i figure it must be hard to throw away almost a decade of being with someone, but it makes me want to retreat into myself knowing that as your partner, i will spend a lifetime with you, surrounded by pieces of her you’re unwilling to let go of.

when we move into a bigger place so that we have enough room to start our growing family, i want to be the one to toss those notebooks into the trashcan.

i still haven’t found the case.

when people find out that you have depression, it is often the only thing people seem to notice about you from that point on.

instead of noticing the fact that you have a real smile on your face for the first time all day, they notice that you /haven’t/ been smiling.

instead of them being filled with pride that you spoke up for yourself today, which is often an impossible feat, they brush your opinions and worries aside, effectively silencing all future times you would have used your voice.

when people find out that you have depression, their first question is often ‘what is it like?’ followed by ‘what do i need to know?’

both of those questions are damn near impossible to answer.

my depression is not some disease that you need to be hyper-aware of so you don’t catch it. it is not contagious and i do not need to be handled with extra care just because i am sick. because of my depression, i have made the house my soul lives in out of stone and steel, not glass. i am by no means weak and do not need to be treated as such.

so what is it like? it’s like going through life just as you already do, only there’s a bomb lodged into your brain and you have no idea when or if it’s going to explode.

living with depression means that a lot of times, i can’t find it in me to do what i need to do. sure, i know that i haven’t done laundry in almost two weeks and that i need to go grocery shopping so i can eat tomorrow, but that bomb’s tick has been awfully loud lately and it’s got me so worried that if i move too fast or take on too much it’ll explode.

when people find out that you have depression, they will most likely fail to see the battle you are raging every day. yes, i love to read, but you haven’t ever seen me read a book. it takes all my effort to focus on your text because that bomb in my head has already blown up my ability to enjoy the things i KNOW i enjoy- how do you expect me to sit through 50,000 words if i fight to read 15?

in addition to being a bomb, depression is also kind of like a leech. in fact, it is a leech. a really fucking big one. it attaches onto the things you love, the things you want, and it drains everything you have out of them so they’re not longer enjoyable. a lot of times that’s not enough for the monster and it has to move onto greater things like your motivation to get out of bed and your ability to function on the worst days.

depression doesn’t just suck, it puts negative things into you in return. your past love of learning and life is replaced by overwhelming desires for things to be over and to burn every one of your hundreds of dollar textbooks in hopes that you’ll be able to feel some kind of warmth because god knows the last time you felt anything but cold and dreary.

when people find out you have depression, you have to take every negative thought they don’t dare say out loud and turn it into energy. they will think you are lazy, unreliable, irresponsible, etc, etc. you are none of those things. you are fighting the greatest battle anyone could ever fight- themselves- 24/7, 365 days a year and you are /winning./ if you were any of those things, you would have given up the fight a long time ago.

when people find out you have depression, they stick you into a box. when you decide you want to break out of the box, you start proving them wrong.

dear lover,

i’m starting to find that the hardest part of this break is leaving you alone. it’s going to sound like such a ~millennial~ thing to say, but not being able to tag you in things i see that remind me of you is taking all of my self control.

i see you in lots of things. that’s the real problem. in the sweet posts people make about loved ones. in obscure humour i know you would love if you saw. in the music i discover that sounds like you. damn near everything.

my fingers have gotten into the habit of typing your name without thinking. i get to ‘pres’ a lot of times before the un-typed ‘ton’ hits me like it sounds- like a ton of bricks. 2000 pounds of force slam into my rib cage and shatter it when i realize i can’t do that anymore.

they say it takes 14 days to break habits and i keep starting over on day one every day. talking to you every morning was like, the highlight of my morning. i woke up early every day when i had that to look forward to, but now the time keeps getting later. i’ve fallen from 7:30 to 8:30 on the good days, 9 on the bad.

and the nights. the nights are even worse. i know what time you’re doing what because i memorized every last detail of you that i could. around 10:45 pm i feel the excitement bubble in my chest that you’re about to be home and wish me goodnight before you wind down and go to sleep. now it’s just anxiety and an aching reminder it’ll be a long time before that happens again.

fridays suck now. friday was my favourite day of the week because it usually meant spending the evening with you and falling asleep in your arms. fridays were for relaxing at home with you, curled up on the couch watching who knows what or doing what we were really good at- each other. what always happened though was us falling asleep in each others arms, you kissing me goodnight three times as always.

saturday mornings are a little rough too. you let me pick the saturday clothes and i always did my best to match your shirt and tie perfectly. the fact i no longer have to lift your tie up to count 3 buttons down to place your tie clip in the saturday morning sun while you smile down at me makes my fingers itch. i miss the morning coffee with your mom too. and the yoga. and just her positive, bubbly energy in general. i hate that she doesn’t like me anymore.

it’s been 12 days since i haven't been able to do any of those habits, so i’m sure by next friday, my body will have adjusted to the late mornings and even later nights and i will no longer be awake early enough to miss your presence while i’m awake.

dear lover, i promise i am trying my best to leave you alone, but it is so hard to stop myself from sharing the world with someone who is such a big part of mine. one day i will make it a full 24 hours without asking you a question or commenting on something you’ve posted. i promise. one day you will get the silence from me that you want and i’m sure that will make you happy. i’ll try my best to do it, because i never want to make you unhappy.

i will send my fingers to boot camp so they will untrain themselves from the habit of typing your name and deleting it, typing your name and deleting it, typing your name and deleting it, typing your name...you get it. at least for now.

one day i hope my fingers will be able to share the world with you again while we are apart. i hope they will be able to give you the back scratches you love and the attention to your beard that you adore. they will run through your hair and stop at your nape and give your neck the slightest of squeezes as our lips meet.

when that happens, i will have to retrain my lips to mold themselves against yours perfectly. i hope you are ready for the practice, because baby, we’ll need lots of it. after all, it can take almost 2 months to form a habit.

i love you,

gabe

you said you left because i was sick, so i've been taking my medicine to get better. when they handed me the bottles, my doctor warned me that one of them is known to cause vivid nightmares.

the word nightmare is subjective. my nightmares aren't full of horrible monsters and your "typical" fears like the dark, falling, drowning. my nightmares mirror reality.

now i don't dream a lot. i never have really. i only dream when i have strong feelings on something and they buzz in my mind before bed. imagine bees, but their sting only hurts your mind and not your body.

my first nightmare in years was you stepping away. the night after i dreamed it, it happened. i slept next to you as i had that one. that was pre-medicine, driven by pure fear. justifiably. i remember crying into your chest before bed that day, my nails digging into your back to keep me grounded as i whispered to you, 'hold me close and kiss me, just in case you decide you don't want me around anymore tomorrow.' i told you i would ask once and only once. i had so much to say, but all i could get out was "please stay" before the tears took over and i cried myself to sleep in the safety of your arms. you cried with me. i didn't understand why until i woke up.

turns out, you did decide that you didn't want me around that next day.

my second nightmare, the first one post-medicine, was you distancing yourself. making your exit. through my own eyes as a ghost of who i was to you, i watched you leave in real time- platform after platform of social media saw your name disappear. you left groups we were in, our few friends we had together voicing concern. you deleted all the pictures on your phone that we took together, which is quite a lot. you wrote me out of your life as i sat helplessly, unable to wake myself up and tell myself it was only a nightmare.

but when i woke up in cold sweat, i realized it wasn't a nightmare. it was reality. the group chat is one short- you- and explaining it to our friends hurts. i asked them to care for you in my absence. i said that you'll come around one day.

at least that's what i'm telling myself. i'm telling myself that this reality of mine is a nightmare that i'll wake up from one day. that one day we'll have new pictures together to replace all the ones you may have deleted, that our friends will be OUR friends again, and the next time i cry myself to sleep in your arms it won't be because my instincts are telling me "he's going to leave me tomorrow" but because your arms are my safety from the vivid nightmares the medicine that helps keep me well brings.

all of the ways i have taught my body to fall asleep with no longer work

because now i know the difference between my arms around a pillow and my arms around you.

there's no replacement or substitute for the warmth of your arms around me, holding me into your chest,

where i feel safe.

primal instincts will tell you that no matter the species, it is much easier to fall asleep in safety than in chaos.

restlessness and i have always had an ongoing battle. lately, it's winning and i have the dark circles to prove it. battle scars.

i know i can fight the restlessness off on my own. most nights i can get away with battling for no more than an hour before it retreats and prepares for the next night.

but with your breath on my neck and an arm across my waist, i swear it only takes a few seconds to fight it off.

i can take the challenge of a one on one, and some battles are more difficult than others.

but the battles i battle with you...

you make anything conquerable.

it's been three weeks since you laid next to me on my bed,

but the sheets still hold onto your scent the way velcro holds onto itself-

indefinitely, until it's ripped away.

i can't bring myself to wash the sheets because if i do, i'm afraid i'll wash away all the comfort the bed brings me.

how lovely it is to be able to roll over and breathe and get hints of you filling my lungs,

your scent meeting the oxygen and coursing through every vessel my body possesses.

it's been three weeks since you laid next to me on my bed,

but the clean pair of underwear you left behind is holding your place for you.

i washed those, just in case they were dirty, but your smell is is sewn into the waistband.

clean, like laundry soap and sage with a hint of mint and a touch of musk.

you always smell so clean that sometimes i wonder if your father's name was clorox, but i know it's not because there is nothing chemical about you.

you smell like the earth, natural and wholistic. fresh.

you smell so clean that it's no wonder even your voice has the same ability as swiffer and lysol when you speak to me. it clears the cobwebs on the positive emotions and thoughts i haven't used in awhile; breathing you in is like mopping the floor and scrubbing the walls.

the surface of me looks soiled and ugly but the comfort those hints of mint and touch of musk bring make the house my brain inhabits sparkle.

turns out, the house was never ugly. i was just never cleaning it properly.

it's been three weeks since you laid next to me on my bed,

but the walls have been scrubbed with no sign of buildup starting again and the floor is still sparkling.

dear lover,

i spent lots of time in a library today. both of the libraries i went to had signs that they hosts games of d&d. you can probably guess what that means. i spent lots of time thinking about you today. you and books.

i would hate being compared to a book, personally. mostly because i’m not something that you read and put down halfway through just because you don’t like the plot twist in the middle. besides, depression isn’t a plot twist in my book; it’s the thing me, the hero, tries to overcome in the second half of the book. the second half people never bother to read.

the story at the beginning is great though. at least that’s what i’ve heard. there’s got to be a reason people keep going past the cover, past the first chapter. right? it’s like a fairy tale, a dream come true. the perfect book.

and then it’s not perfect. but the expectation that the book is is already in your mind, so when it stops being less than perfect, it’s no longer worth reading. at least, that’s what i’ve been heard.

part two is still in progress though. every day a new page is written and each page past the initial ‘twist’ is better than the last. i don’t think that’s particularly special though. that’s the case with most people’s stories.

and then i got to thinking again. we, as in us together, are kind of like a book. actually, i feel perfectly fine calling us a book. we are a story that we are cowriting together. the story of us. god, isn’t that cliché?

the book of me and the book of us aren’t actually all that different. both start perfectly. both are the thing of dreams, everything you ever wanted in a story. and of course, both of these stories have less than perfect plot twists in the middle of them.

this is where the books start to differ.

the book of me is still open on a table, blank pages plenty, and more than enough words to fill the space. i have never put this book down. this is a book that i fight to write.

the book of us isn’t still being written. it’s an unfinished project, put on a shelf to collect dust and harbor memories either too dear to forget or too painful to remember so they don’t have to remain thoughts in our heads. the book of us was put down mid sentence, an infinite cliffhanger.

but i feel like it doesn’t have to stay that way. i feel like the authors of this book will come back to it one day, other books they’ve read since they put it down giving them inspiration and ideas on how they can make this book have a great ending. something that’s so perfect, it makes the beginning of the same book look like that less than perfect plot twist that stopped them mid-sentence and ask ‘now what?’

as for me, i know my book will continue to get better. my book is going to be so amazing that when i publish the next chapters, everyone will see red that they tried putting it down. my book will be one that captivates people and leaves them thinking about it for days on end. the one people recommend to their friends.

i hope that the books you read before you come back to the one we’re writing inspire you. i hope they fill you with knowledge on things you wanted to know and things you stumble on by surprise and end up loving. i hope that the book you’re writing yourself keeps getting better. in fact, i think i would almost call it the perfect book. almost.

there’s a perfect book for everyone out there. i’ve read a lot of books, and i have quite the collection of finished novels and epics on my shelf. i think maybe a thousand or so have laid themselves bare for my eyes to pour over their pages. and out of all of those books, ours is my favourite.

let’s finish it someday. sooner than later is preferred, but i’m reading a book right now on how to be patient.

gabe

1.

“i’ll go,” i say.

every part of me wants you to ask me to stay.

you don’t.

2.

i always forget how much i miss your voice until i hear it.

until it tells me you love me.

then i wish i could forget it.

3.

“is love enough?” i whisper.

your hesitation was my answer.

4.

the middle is a horrible place to be.

more than a friend,

less than a lover.

please, pick one, before my heart breaks in my chest.

someone once told me that time doesn’t exist

until you measure it.

i never believed them,

until i met you.

only then did i stop watching the clock in wait

and start watching you.

the thing about time is that you’re only given so much,

that you have to use it while you can.

i never believed that either until i looked at the clock again

(out of habit)

and when i looked back you were gone.

-my biggest regret

dear lover,

i've never been the best at starting things like this, so i guess i'll start with the simplest way to say what i want to say; i'm sorry.

i am sorry that the world was not kind to me before you were in my life and because of that i grew an exterior so hard that even a drill has trouble penetrating it. i never told you this, but you cracked the surface like no one else has before. i think that's why this hurts so much.

i am sorry for all the times my voice raised higher than the sound of our laughter and i felt immediate regret when i saw the look in your eyes. i might mention that i'm also sorry it took me almost twenty minutes to apologize each time because the shame was so great i couldn't get my voice to work. i should have kept calm and been patient with you because that's all you ever were with me.

i am sorry for every time i called you an idiot, joking or not. you aren't an idiot. not at all. you are intelligent, so much so that you could see what was for the best when i could see nothing was wrong at all. if anything, i'm kind of an idiot sometimes.

i am sorry for every time i made a joke that i didn't realize might have hurt your feelings, especially the ones about your tastes in music and the things you enjoy. since you left, your 3 artists are all i can seem to listen to. if music is going to remind me of you, it might as well be YOUR music. to be fair, they're not as bad as i thought. most of the songs anyways.

i am sorry for any time that i made you feel like you had to choose between me and someone else. i would never make you choose. you can have me and anyone else that you'd like, as long as you can spare a few moments of your time for me each day. i never asked for all of it. i don't want all of it. i want you to have a life too, because i would never give up all of my time for anyone- not even you.

i am sorry for the sense of humour i have that made your loved ones dislike me. you see, i get nervous around new people- it comes with the anxiety- and because i get nervous, i automatically drift to humour as a defense mechanism. i often forget not everyone has the same warped sense that i do. i know you are not my possession. i never claimed or thought you were. it's unfortunate my illness affected their opinions so greatly.

i am sorry for the times i left your side to sleep on the couch. had i known our time would be so short, i would have sucked up the restlessness and pressed myself so tightly into your chest that it wouldn't have mattered that the bed was a little too small for both of us. i would have been by your side, and that's all that matters. i'm sorry for creating that distance between us, however small.

i am sorry that i am ill. i am working my best to get over it, and i hope that you can see that someday. i hope that one day instead of waking up and being shown out of the house that i wake up and get reminded to take my medicine in that low morning voice of yours that i love. i promise you i'm going to beat this. for me and for you both.

and lover, most of all, i am sorry for your loss. when you stepped away you took parts of me with you that i will never get back. even when we reuinite down the road, the pieces of me that you held onto will not fit back into their original places just right. i will still smile at you brighter than the sun is able to shine and i will still fill the nighttime with genuine laughter as we dance in the moonlight, but i may hesitate to tell you i trust you when you ask me at first. i may shy away from your touch not because someone else hurt me once upon a time, but because i am unsure if the gentleness in your hands is because you love me or because you want to let me down easy. so be patient with me. i'm sure with time it will be just as it was, but the right way this time.

dear lover, i know that this page is just a scratch on the surface of all the things i could and should apologize for, but it is a start. as time goes on, i'm sure more of these will find their way to you. i hope that you take them to heart. after all, that's why i write. if i put my heart on a page, the thoughts can't keep me up at night. would you believe me if i told you i haven't written like this in nearly three years? you don't know this, but you kind of saved me. for the first time in a long time i have clear skies and a full heart, thanks to you.

dear lover, leaving me to fly on my own for now was a good choice. i'm sorry it hurts so much, and i'm sorry that in my pain i hurt you too. please don't give up on our story just yet. i want to meet you on the other side of this, fall into your arms, and kiss these apologies into your lips. i'll see you again this summer.

love,

gabe.