Don't Fear The Reaper

{xxi. i imagine death so much it feels more like a memory}

"But when you're gone, who remembers your name? Who keeps your flame, who tells your story?"

-'Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story', Hamilton

✕✕✕✕✕

Gold light filtered in through my bedroom window as the sun slowly descended beyond the Green Mountains. It was a picturesque sight to see, but my focus was less on the haze of the afternoon and more on the boy sitting at the end of my bed. In the rays, Will's skin had gone tan and his hair amber, dappled with beams of yellow and orange and white.

We were doing homework, studying the Fall of Rome for our upcoming history exam, but I couldn't keep my eyes on the paper. They kept flicking back to him, even when the light glinted off of the pen that he was determinedly writing with, momentarily blinding me. When my vision returned, I saw him turn to face me as he casually mused, "You know, when I took Ancient Civilizations, I kind of thought we'd be learning more important stuff. Like, why is Caesar salad called exactly that? Did Julius Caesar invent it?"

"The guy who created it was an Italian immigrant, and Caesar was his first name," I replied matter-of-factly. "And it was actually at a restaurant in Tijuana in the 1920s."

He raised his eyebrows, and in return his eyes - colored with that rich, deep, mossy green, with flecks of brown and gold - widened. "How do you know that?"

"I saw it on Jeopardy!"

We chuckled together, and I felt my heart beat lazily slow and much-too-fast all at once. Although he knew me better than anyone, ever since we started dating, I'd somehow felt on edge around him. It was a good kind of edge, though - the type you get when you can't stop smiling, when you look at someone's face and see your entire future ahead of you. What a lovely afternoon, I thought lazily to myself, as if I was some old-fashioned ingenue. I want things to stay like this forever.

"Lila!" Mama called up from downstairs, her voice a lilting melody, a bolero all on its own. "Food's ready!"

I glanced to Will, who grimaced. He went to start packing his notebooks, quickly saying, "I guess I'll leave, then."

No, I thought to myself. Please, never go.

"There's no need for that," I protested out loud. "I know things are... weird at your house. Are either of your parents even home to make you dinner?"

"It's okay. I'm 15, Lila, I can make myself toast or something." He averted those beautiful eyes, but that didn't stop their glow. Warmth radiated through my chest as I watched my boyfriend for just over a year file his things away in his backpack. Just like that, his section of the bed was clean, and when he stood, it became achingly empty.

Rapidly, I leaped up from the bed and grabbed his arm. "Will, I'm serious. You can stay for dinner. It's okay. I think my mom likes having someone other than Kat and I around the house, anyway."

Will smiled, but shook his head. "I don't want to be annoying," he said softly. "I feel like I'm such a burden on you guys, always taking refuge just because my dad has a gambling issue and my mom hates him for it."

My heart melted, like molten gold flowing through my body as some romantic alternate for blood. Though Will was witty and kind and rebellious and confident at school, his parents had always been a point of vulnerability for him. Their constant fighting was the only thing that could ever break his unshakable smiles and way with words - well, them and I, or so he said.