Ashes of the Sun

Perfection should not exist theoretically. But against all forces of nature, it did, and not only did it exist, it lived and breathed in the body of Cyrus Egner. 

Cyrus was the sun. Everyone around him were mere rocks that orbited his presence. Everything about it was infuriating. But even more frustrating was the fact that I could not hate him for it. 

I was only 6 when I first met him. My mother had been making Tamales in the kitchen, and I had clung to her legs, begging her to let me try as well. Someone had knocked on our front-door, so my mother left to answer it. I had taken the opportunity to climb on the kitchen counter and reach for the bowl of flour. But I slipped, and I accidentally knocked over the bowl, causing it to crash down to the floor with me and cover me in white powder.

My mother gasped as she walked back into the kitchen with two guests behind her. I heard laughing as I tried to shake myself off the flour and face my mother’s wrath. My face burned with embarrassment and anger as I peeked out from behind my mother to see who laughed. I saw a dark-haired boy my age standing beside a woman who looked to be his mother. And I somehow forgot my initial irritation, and my first thought about the boy was: He has pretty eyes.

Those eyes stayed in my thoughts for a long time. I tried to pinpoint the exact shade of brown they were. They weren’t light enough to be called hazel, nor dull enough to be named chestnut. It didn’t hit me until my mother handed me a cup of warm hot chocolate when I was sneezing and coughing from a bad cold. Warm cocoa. 

He was a regular guest—an unwelcome one–at my household. Our mothers would talk on the balcony over tea while our fathers would sit on the living room couch discussing the local news while watching football on the TV. I would sit at my desk trying to finish my homework, and Cyrus would sit on my bed bothering me with bad jokes. He would smile wide, undeterred by my scowls, and question why I was taking so long. My irritation would increase when he leaned over my desk to solve the math problem I’d been struggling with in less than a few seconds. 

“I can’t stand him,” I grumbled to my mother one evening after his family left. “I wish he would leave me alone.”

My mother raised an eyebrow at me, her eyes crinkled in amusement. “Be careful what you wish for. You might miss him one day.”

Summer nights we would race through the open fields by our neighborhood. It always became a competition—one that I would always lose. I would pant and curse at him, my hands on my knees with exhaustion as he laughed at me. But then I would look up and see his eyes glint in the moonlight and I would be left silently fuming. 

He became taller than me when we hit 12. I liked that now I didn’t have to look directly at his eyes when talking—now our conversations can be easier. He then started taking more advanced classes at 13. I reasoned that school can become more tolerable now that I didn’t have to share classes with him and compete over every test. By 16 his summer nights became more occupied with soccer practices and band rehearsals. Now I no longer had to lose to him in our runs. By 18, he had secured a spot in one of the most competitive colleges. 

I was forced to meet his eyes when he came to tell me he was now moving half-way across the country. And I was left speechless again by the glint in his eyes and the crinkle in his smile. I expected to feel anger or irritation—the way I always fumed. Perhaps it was the realization that he would not be there to chase me down anymore that stopped me.

Perhaps it was the realization that he had never actually been the one chasing—I had been. And he had always been out of reach, always moving forward in a pace that made it impossible for me to keep up. And now I was going to lose to him—no, lose him—for good.

And I could no longer come up with an excuse that would help me feel better about the situation. 

So I didn’t return the smile that he had given me. I didn’t congratulate him. I didn’t go to the airport the following week to bid him goodbye. Months passed and I didn’t call him to ask about his dorm or about the new friends he’d probably made. 

He didn’t call either. 

I went to a local community college near my house, working a part-time job at a quiet coffee place. I saved up enough money to transfer to a state school after two years, taking on extra internships and volunteer activities on the side. After classes everyday I went to the library where I stayed until I was forcibly ushered out by the librarians quarter past closing time. I reserved Friday evenings to go to the club and let the music drown out my pounding headache. That’s where I met the first guy I dated. 

He was of average height, honey blonde hair and dimples showing when he smiled. Conversation was easy with him, and I never had trouble meeting his eyes. It was simple, straightforward, and it made sense. He didn’t laugh at me or provoke me into arguing with him. There was understanding between us and he was polite in everything he did. He introduced me to his friend group, and they became the people I spent the rest of my college years with. 

I went back to my parents’ home the Thanksgiving break after my 23rd birthday. My mother opened the door, ready to berate me for not visiting frequently. My father saved me from the lecture with a hug. They led me inside to the dining room, where guests waited. My wide eyes met cocoa brown ones, and I was left numb as Cyrus gave me a wry smile. 

My mother’s hands led me to the table, making me take the seat across from him. I took in his appearance, the eye bags under his eyes and the slump in the way he sat. He was so different from the boy I once knew. And I was different too. For once, my eyes could not stray from him. And for once, his eyes refused to meet mine. 

I tried to talk to him after everyone had left the dinner table. I asked him if he wanted to talk over some coffee the next day. He shrugged me off, offering a half-hearted excuse about a work call he needed to take. And so I asked if he wanted to meet the day after that. Another excuse was given. The week passed, and I grew agitated as the day I had to go back to university grew closer. I cornered Cyrus at his house, ignoring his protests and walking into his room. 

He refused to face me as I demanded he talk to me. My frustration grew as he stayed silent. My breathing became hard, the guilt I had clamped down on finally surfacing. I quieted, my hands shaking slightly as I apologized for losing contact with him. I, for the first time in my life, begged for forgiveness. 

My breathing stilled as he turned to look directly into my eyes, his voice flat, to tell me he would never forgive me for what I did. 

I went home and sobbed through the night. I knew he had every right to be mad. Besides, it was about time he realized he was too perfect to put up with someone like me. It was for the best, I decided. Perhaps this was the closure I needed. 

My boyfriend asked me to move in after we graduated from law school. We worked together in the same firm, helping each other through late nights of casework. I checked in on Cyrus from time to time by stalking his social media account. He was a well-accomplished entrepreneur, his business generating millions of revenue. His follower count ranked in the millions as well, and his posts remained frequent. He started appearing on magazine covers as the nation’s youngest aspiring businessman, becoming famous enough for my boyfriend to point out that Cyrus and I were from the same small town. 

I only smiled, shrugging it off as a coincidence. 

My boyfriend asked me to marry him 3 years later. I said yes. I called my parents to tell them, and I received happy tears and excited laughs. I was surprised to see a phone call from an unknown number a week later. I picked it up, a strange feeling in my chest. I recognized Cyrus’s voice immediately. 

“Your mother told me," he said. “I’m happy for you.” 

“Thank you,” I whispered to him, tears in my eyes as I tried not to let out a sob. I had never meant those two words more deeply my entire life. Perhaps we were healing. Perhaps in the future I could work up the courage to try to salvage the remains of our friendship. 

A few months passed. A week before my wedding ceremony I received a call from my mother. My eyes widened as I heard her voice shake. “Cyrus,” she said. “He’s gone.” 

I rushed to the airport, getting on the first flight back to my hometown. I walked into Cyrus’s house, my heart pounding as I realized his parents were on the couch sobbing. I felt words vaguely fly past my head. It was the stress, they said. He couldn’t handle it. 

It can’t be, I wanted to scream. Cyrus was the personification of perfection. There was nothing he couldn’t handle. I didn’t know when I fainted, but my mother told me I had blacked out from shock and they had to carry me back home. 

I woke up in my bed to the worried face of my fiancé. He yelled at me for the first time in our relationship. I had forgotten to tell him I was taking a flight to my old town, and he told me he thought I had gone missing. I felt numb, and I didn’t have anything left in me to respond. I finally broke, and tears slipped down my face. He paused, and then he was pulling me into a hug, whispering apologies. I don’t know how long I sobbed that night, how long I grieved over my Cyrus. 

My Cyrus whose pain I had not seen. My Cyrus who I had thought so perfect that I had forgotten he was human too. My Cyrus whose laugh I’ll never hear again. My Cyrus whose eyes I now longed to meet. My Cyrus whose death I will hold myself accountable for until my last breath.

We buried him in the fields we used to run through as kids. I postponed my wedding ceremony, taking time off of work and moved back to my parents’ home. Everyday I woke up and took flowers to Cyrus’s grave. I sat next to him for hours, telling him all the stories he had missed over the decade we were separated. I brought a mug of hot chocolate with me in the evenings. I finally told him why it was my favorite drink. And when I closed my eyes under the faint glow of the moonlight, sometimes I could almost see him standing in front of me, his eyes glinting as he laughed.