Write to Me (oliver~elio)

Chapter 1

I watch myself put the phone back down on the table. I can tell people are talking to me, but nothings coming through. I stagger my way up the stairs, feeling as if my legs have been ripped from beneath me. I sit on my bed and just stare at the wall.
My mouth feels dry, yet my nose and eyes contrast. I turn some music on, trying to focus on that instead. I close my eyes and lay down, and I feel tears roll down my face. It's over now. I hug a nearby pillow, feeling an emptiness inside me.

I wish I could hold him.
__________________________________
5 Months Later...

Vivian and I have officially broken off our engagement. Of course, I'm upset by this, but I also feel that a weight has been lifted off of my shoulders. It's not that she had known about Elio specifically, but she still speculated something had happened while I was visiting Italy. Only, she was envisioning I had gotten attached to some Italian woman, not a 17-year-old boy. I had never been with a boy. Or a guy I should say.

After I took the train home that day, I couldn't fight it anymore. I couldn't hold up the act I had put on for the past decade. I knew I wasn't attracted to women, yet I still pushed myself into impossible relationships, as I did with Vivian, which I will always regret. I want to start living for me, but that would be impossible. There are too many eyes on me, watching my every move with high expectations. My brother would have understood; he always did.

Now, all I want to do is run back to Italy and be with Elio. I shouldn't have acted with such immaturity towards him, refusing to reach out and pretending nothing had happened. Now that it's been so long, I don't know if he'd forgive me; that thought, lately, has been keeping me up at night. Ever since my therapist suggested it, i've been writing out this stress that i've felt, and the dreams i've been having. It's becoming harder to ignore, as I always wake up wishing I could go back. I think about calling him, but i'm afraid of the possibility he wouldn't pick up or wouldn't want to speak to me. All of these thoughts spin around in my head until I'm forced to write them down. Some days I spend hours at my desk, writing about my days, my anxiety, and often times, Elio. I dream about his voice, his lean body and defined jaw, his curly soft hair that I once held in my hands. I grab my car keys and get into my car.

I need to go to Italy.

I need to see him.