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Dear Anthony, 

I don't know why I'm doing this. I don't even know why I decided to do this in the first place. But either way, I'm here in your room, writing. 

Nate snuggled into the blankets further, desperately trying to inhale Anthony's scent ― the sheets still smelled like him ― sweat, cologne, and lemons. Nate missed Anthony. 

I think the first thing I want to tell you is that I miss you. I miss you so much, and I don't know how to put it in words Anthony.

Nate's hand shook as he wrote. Tears threatened to spill from their confines, threatening to stain the paper. This was harder than he thought it would be. 

Maybe that's stupid. But I don't think it is. 

Nate looked up, his body still covered in Anthony's blanket. He looked at the wall, photo frames covering up almost every inch of it. Nate's room, in the house right next-door was the same ― an entire wall had been dedicated to Anthony, to his sun, his sky. 

I'm looking around your room now. I know you can't see me, but I'm looking at your photo wall. I hung up a photo of us in my room, and you saw it and said you wanted that in your room too. I'd laughed and said sure. From that day on, I got two copies of the photos. One for you, and one for me. Do you remember that Anthony?

Nate remembered like it was yesterday.

I do.

Nate started to laugh. There were tears slipping out of his eyes. Falling, and rolling down his cheeks. Nate was still laughing.

I do. What stupid words. I'd only ever hoped I'd get to say them one day. I never did.

He never did. Anthony had promised him that he would. One day, when they'd been cuddled up on the sofa, watching a bride and a groom getting married, Nate had said that getting married in a wonderful, fun wedding had always been something of his dreams. Anthony had turned to him, booped his nose lovingly, kissed him and had said, "I promise you we'll get married one day, and you can say 'I do,' Nate." 

You promised that I would get to say it. You promised that both of us would say it, and that we would get the wedding of our dreams. It never happened.

Nate couldn't write about this anymore. It hurt too much. He looked up at the photos again. It hurt too.

But back to the photos. I'm looking at one we hung up on our fifth anniversary. There was a carnival in town, and we were supposed to be studying. Finals were coming up, and it was our third year at college. It was an important year, important exams, but we were more important. We ran out of the house, giggling to ourselves, calling up Sophie and Logan to come with us.

Everything hurt. The memories stung. The photo made it worse. Everything hurt. The pen fell from Nate's hand. Everything hurt. There were tears everywhere ― Nate's cheeks wet with the slick wetness of them. There were wet spots on the paper. The pen made a thump as it hit the ground. This was harder than he thought it would be. 

Nate, with tears still trailing down his face, bent down and picked up the pen. His lips were trembling as he wrote.

We ended up taking a ride on the Ferris Wheel. It was lit up with neon signs and lights. It was so so bright, so bright, just like you Anthony. 

Nate's hand was shaking.

And you gave me a big, sloppy kiss, when we were on the top, like you always

Nate didn't want to use past-tense. He didn't like past-tense. He carried on, writing in present-tense, his eyes half squeezed shut with pain.

do. You wrapped your arms around me, and just for the few seconds, when we were still on top of the Ferris Wheel, our neighborhood seeming ages away, I felt like we were the world, Anthony. I felt like we were the world, and it was just us. The sounds of the people in the carnival and their ecstatic cries didn't reach my ears in that moment. It was just us.

Anthony had said once that Nate was beautiful with words. Nate hated that fact right now. He was reliving every single moment, in the form of these stupid words on this stupid paper and everything hurt. Everything hurt. 

Nate hated his words. The world felt hollow now. Right now, Nate felt like their world had never existed. Right now, Nate felt as if it was all just a distant memory, fogged and forgotten from the daily happenings of life. In that very moment, for the very first time in his life, Nate despised his connection with words.

In the photo, you have this big smile on your face. You're looking at the camera, only pure joy to be seen. You look so so happy, Anthony. Were you? Happy, I mean. I hope you were. 

Nate hoped he was.

You'd just bought me a flower-crown, and put it on my head. You twirled me around, and I didn't care anymore. I didn't care about the people staring at us, whispering about the two boys dancing in front of a ice-cream cart. It was always just us, Anthony. 

Nate hated that he'd gone back to past-tense. 

It is just them, it is just them. It would always be just them.

His brain kept saying "was".

You can't see my face in the photo. I buried my head in your jacket, my prominent blush standing out in the photo Sophie took. The sunset is behind us, the sky's pinkish-orange hues lighting up the world even more. The Ferris Wheel was still moving. It shook in the photo. But we were still, proudly encompassed by our joy.

Nate's hand hadn't stopped shaking once. 

The photo is still up there. I'm never going to take it down.

He was never going to take it down. Nate promised himself he would never take the photos down. They were him and Anthony, and that was all that mattered.

The wall isn't filled up entirely yet. We've squeezed all the photos together, and most of them are overlapping, sticking out here and there. There are some empty spaces.

Nate would never fill them up. He wouldn't dare touch them. They would remain empty.

I'm going to leave them like that.

Nate missed Anthony.

I miss you.

Nate wondered how he should end the letter. A simple "Nate," would never suffice. Nor would a "Love, Nate". There were so many emotions bubbling up inside him and a simple send-off could never rewind the times, and stop everything.

Nate looked at the lined, white, paper, soft in some places, from his tears, and looked at the tip of his pen. He shifted the sheet a little, and wrote in his clear, slightly shaking scribble:

With love, Nate.