The Sensation of Falling

I first met you when you gave me a pencil. Small and unimportant in every single way. But what made it matter was the smile on the corners of your lips. It was spread across your eyes, like a candle, illuminating everything around you. And it was only a pencil.

And then, only three days later, we were together. You and me, me and you. Or you and I, I and you, if you want me to be grammatically correct. We were only fourteen at the time. Oblivious. We took the hand holding and stolen kisses behind the lockers for granted. We were just a teenage couple, taking advantage of our average teenage lives.

But the smile on your face every time you looked me in the eye was priceless. And a small shiver ran down my spine every time I saw that sparkle in your eyes, the laughter on your lips. The sensation of falling in love.

You told me you loved me more than anything else in the world. For a while, it seemed like it would never end. We saw that people were practically begging us to break up - high school relationships couldn't last this long. You told me not to worry, they were only jealous. Their own silly little flings would never work out. But I can't help but wonder if we could have saved ourselves from this whole sorry mess if we'd given in and broken up. You said breaking up with me would be the hardest thing you could ever do.

And then, two years later, we were still together. A lot can happen in two years, as we know more than most. My hair had been three different shades of brown, red for two months and black for three. You went from wearing polo shirts to t-shirts. Trainers to converse. You ran for the athletics team for a bit, but fell out with the coach. And then I had a test.

One blood test, which turned into another, and another, and another. You came with me once, remember? You said you hated hospitals. The smell of antibacterial gel and the squeal of the rubber soles of shoes on the floor. And the death and pain that seemed to linger in the gleaming corridors. But you came to help me, because things were getting bad. And it was only a matter of time before everything changed.

The 27th November. The big day. You said you wanted to come with me for support. All the way in the car you held my hand, but neither my parents, nor you, uttered a single word. A grunt from my father when another car cut him up. A reassuring glance from my mother when we got stuck in traffic. And that silence, I loved it.

Even after the doctor looked up from his papers and removed his glasses, you stayed silent. You never shook or broke down in tears. You never told me you were sorry or gave me one of those freaking sympathetic looks that everyone in the room gave me when the man in the lab coat said, 'It's not good news.' Your silence was infinite. It broke through my mother's broken sobs and my father's sighs.

But I guess we knew from the very beginning that I wouldn't really have long. The words 'aggressive' and 'rare' could never be good. Chemo would buy me a year, maybe more if I was lucky. By this point, your hand was clammy and sweaty, your body stiff.

When we were safely away from the hospital, I fell into your arms and cried like I never had before. When I looked up, your face was striped with tears, too. You told me it would be okay. That you would never let my cancer hurt me. But what were you going to do? Reach deep inside me and remove it? You could do nothing but be there for me.

I considered leaving you. What was the point in staying with you longer if I was going to die soon anyway? Wouldn't it make this a whole lot easier if we broke up now, and the next time you saw me was in a wooden box? At least you wouldn't have to see me in pain. But you refused point blank, and told me that if you had to die for me you would, without a second thought; there was no way I could leave you now.

I started chemo. My hair fell out in clumps and my mother cried every time she saw a fresh bald patch appear, clumps of my brown hair on my pillow, or enough hair tangled in my hairbrush to make a wig. Eventually, when it got bad enough, you brought me a package. Neatly wrapped in blue tissue paper and tied delicately in a sky-blue ribbon. You gave it to me proudly, you couldn't hide the smile in your eyes. I opened it and found a scarf made of the softest blue silk, the colour the sky turns before it goes pink for the night. I wore it with pride, and you smiled every time you saw me in it.