the sun, the stars, and us

If I close my eyes tight enough for only the whispering shadows of the golden sun to seep through, I can almost remember exactly what she looked like the day we came here a year ago. I can almost remember exactly what that day smelled like as the ocean tides rippled out the deep aroma of saltwater mixing in with her intoxicating perfume. I can almost, almost remember exactly what her laugh sounded like as she shoved me under the water and I pulled her leg down with me. 

What I do remember clearly though, was the feeling of warm, rushing water spilling past the dips of my cheeks and eyelids as I pulled my face from underneath it nearly choking with laughter and had the blessing of being able to open my eyes and see that there she was, smiling, skin glowing in shades of apricot and freckles littering every expanse visible.

Except now, as my head rises from the shadows where the sun could no longer see me, I open my eyes and she’s not there. It’s silent, and I’m alone. 

You’ll never be alone as long as I’m here! Is what she used to say, fingers drumming on the spines of my textbooks as I complained about how lonely I was at school without her. I shouldn’t have complained when I was able to be in a crowded classroom filled with people willing to talk to me about anything while she was stuck hooked up to a machine in the grasps of a hospital bed. 

I did it frequently anyway, only regretting it after it was too late. 

By the summer of last year, she was discharged from the hospital not because she was any better, but because they had her leave with a time limit over her head with estimations of how much longer she got to breathe. 

The day we found out the news I cried, fisting my palms into the fabric of her shirt and screaming about how it wasn’t fair. She didn’t cry, too distracted with stroking the head with hair tickling her chin. 

The week before summer break she turned down anyone who was trying to make summer plans with her and instead asked me to take her to the beach for an entire day, just the two of us. It was one of her last wishes. She didn’t say that but I knew anyway. 

We drove the five hour trip to the nearest beach and she busied herself with feeding me snacks, giving me driving tips even though I was the one with a license and she wasn’t, singing along with the songs that played on the portable radio she brought, and opening the window all the way to allow the wind to pull apart the locks of hair on her head. 

It was a painfully hot day and the sand beneath our barren feet was determined to cause them to redden and peel so we hopped along until we could set up the towels and the umbrella. She wore a sun hat, a large, tan, sun hat with a pink tie around the base of it. I remember it clearly. 

The entirety of the day was spent there, as promised, and as the sun began to set with the beach’s closing time nearing too quickly for my liking, she leaned over to slip my bangs past my ear and press her lips against mine. She thanked me after that, telling me how much I meant to her and that she loved me. 

And that she was sorry. 

I held back the pinching of formulating tears that time to instead pull her into a hug and told her that I loved her back. Now, I want to cry about that moment nearly every day. 

After the beach closed and everyone was forced to leave, she and I sat on the roof of the car over fresh towels because she couldn’t stand the feeling of sand-filled ones against her skin. Under a blanket of stars sat two best friends, or two girls a little bit more to each other than best friends, who were pointing out non-existent constellations and catching each other when we looked as if we were about to fall right off of our places on the car. Under a blanket of stars was where we laughed, real, genuine laughter that echoed through the empty parking lot for no one else to hear except for the two of us. 

Under the stars was where our fingers interlocked and for the first time since her diagnosis, I asked her if she was afraid of dying. She didn’t answer and instead told me not to worry. I should have pushed her further and told her that it was okay to be scared and held her and kissed her but I didn’t, too afraid of ruining that perfect night. 

I regret that too. 

The next night she was hospitalized again for tests and we fell asleep next to each other under the cream-colored covers in the bed that was too small for the two of us but we didn’t care. I woke up first and we were still holding hands, the warmth from hers reminding me that she was still alive, reminding me that she was here, breathing, living, and with me until the end. 

The night after that we stayed up until late to binge watch the entire first season of the first show we saw in the recommendations. I woke up first again to feel the sweat of our hands together and smiled at it. 

The night after that had her complaining about wanting to leave the hospital and live the rest of her life going to school like a normal high-schooler. I told her that she would and she told me that she already knew that but was just being impatient. Neither of us knew that that would prove to be a lie.

Whenever I left the room to go to the restroom or get food, I would return to the sight of her with her knees propped up and a small notebook there. When I asked what she was writing, she told me it was a secret. I would sigh and tell her that she would have to show me someday or I would see it by force. She laughed but agreed anyway. 

The night after that one she spent writing again as we watched the second season of the show and like a ritual, she interlocked her fingers with mine before falling asleep. Also like a ritual, I woke up first with our hands still in each other’s except it wasn’t warm like usual. 

It was cold. 

She died that night in her sleep. 

I didn’t cry. Somehow, I haven’t cried since she was still alive because it felt as if crying would mean that I was accepting the fact that she was gone. And I couldn’t accept that. 

But I should. So I drove out here to sit upon the roof of the same car I drove that day at the same place and time to read the notebook entries that I neglected for a year. 

The cover was a faded teal one, with the inside addressing it to me. Flipping past that were pages of sketches, the lead painting the paper as if it was drawn just yesterday, still smearing if I used my finger to wipe at it. She drew everything in her little world, the desk she sat at in class, her school bag and school shoes next to that, a few of our classmates talking to each other and leaning against the chalk boards, her cat Kedama, basking in the panels of sun near the window, and us. Us in school, us after school studying in her room or mine, us at the beach, us looking at the stars, and so many more instances that sat there like pictures.

The last sketch was of me as I looked up at the television in the hospital room and the second to last was of our hands clasping the other’s. 

On the page after that there was an actual entry written. 

I’m so lucky to have spent these days with you. Thank you. 

Under the stars that flickered and glowed as if they were watching me, I cried for the first time since feeling her cold fingers slip out of mine at a time where the tears I wanted to fall were nowhere to be found. 

But also for the first time since she was alive, I smiled, as I looked up at the stars that told me it was going to be okay. 

And even if she wasn’t here anymore, and her hand wasn’t here to brush away the tears that fled my cheeks, I could almost hear her saying the same thing, and that the night was the most beautiful thing and how I shouldn’t be wasting it crying. 

And if she really were here, I would disagree and tell her that she was the most beautiful thing. Because it was true. And because I could tell the universe agreed.