We stayed that way for what felt like hours, maybe even days. Running hands over each other’s bodies in the purest way possible, learning where produced involuntary shivers or giggles, where had the softest skin and where had scars and dimples, taking it in turns to list the things we liked most about the other.
My list included the way he wasn’t afraid to be completely himself in any situation, the kindness he showed to everyone he met, his voice when he was tired or concentrating, and the face he wore when playing the guitar. It was probably one of the most magical things I had ever witnessed, like a pensioner discovering a lost childhood treasure. When he played he was submerged in his own world, away from all the bad things in life, filled with innocence and bliss. It was my favourite thing to watch when we got a chance to be alone together, to close the door and shut out all the trivial things around, and remain undisturbed in his little bedroom with nothing but his guitar, my notebook, a pen, and each other.
After my list I hid my face in his chest, embarrassed that he now knew how much attention I paid to everything he did, how much I had thought about him. I kept my head there, listening to his slow, calm heart beat until he pulled my face up to his so he could look at my eyes and watch my reaction to what he said, like I had done to him. I wasn’t expecting his list to give the reaction it did.
He started with how I bite my bottom lip when I’m trying to figure something out, my outlook on life (no matter how bad things are, it could be worse), the sparkle in my eyes when I talk about things I love and the way never let others people’s opinions affect me, I just go ahead and do the things I want. It was the last on his list that got me though, the most memorable one there. Making me think that, maybe, he really did care about me as much as I cared about him, that made me realise he was telling the truth when he said he thought about me every night before sleep, just as I did him. The last thing on his list of favourite things about me was my ability to look beautiful all the time. Not in a shallow, superficial way, he said it didn’t matter what I looked like, that I’d always be the most amazing person he’d ever see. He thought of me as beautiful all the time, when I was asleep, when I was ill, when I was in his grey track suit bottoms and a huge t shirt covered head to toe in mud from the dog.
He went to carry on, but by then I couldn’t listen anymore. I couldn’t comprehend that the perfect boy a few inches from my face could really be fixated with me, as I was him. All I could do was fall into his arms and lie there, pulling him as close to me as was possible. It was then that I realised I didn’t ever want to be without him.
