Why I love?

I promised him that I would.

Him, the boy that taught me that our time is unpredictable here and that every single second we have is meant to be used wisely.

And what he believed was wise, was to love; and to love intensely and immensely.

He was the best. He was the sweetest. He was the most insightful. But he was also the most tragic. He was my closest friend.

He was diagnosed after living well for so long. It was like a slap in the face, really… But if he was upset, he never showed it.

He would always reach for his camera first thing in the morning and snap a photo of the first thing he’d seen when his eyes fluttered open. It was usually me after he’d stumbled into my bedroom. And no matter how many times I would scold him and tell him to take a picture of something better and more beautiful (preferably in his room)—he’d smile at me and just would say: “That’s why it’s always you.”

During the first couple of months after he was told of his illness, we would always go out on walks before he started work. That camera of his was always hanging from the strap around his neck while his free hand would rest casually in his jeans pocket.

At home, the sound of pills smacking against each other in their orange container would always greet my ears. At all times of the day, he was always required to swallow a certain amount of pills to keep him healthy. And I didn’t ever know, but I always wondered whether he was taking his medication because it gave him hope that he would someday get better, or if he was simply humoring me knowing that it was useless. But it soon became routine that as soon as my room-mate came home that I would be waiting in the kitchen with six different pills in the palm of my hand while my other hand held out a water bottle for him. He hated this routine. Mainly because he felt like a child getting nasty medicine from his mother, but he never failed to thank me or smile at me afterwards.

Soon, our walks together started becoming less frequent. The camera he so loved was becoming obsolete. And his energy was beginning to fade.

On his final days, I held out his pills as always. But he would shake his head, being unable to speak now, and he would barely focus on me… That was because he couldn’t focus on me, no matter how hard he was trying to. The illness had taken full control of his body and it slowly killed him.

One night, I walked into his room. The clock read 2 a.m.

I found him lying on the hardwood floor, his hand barely holding a black ball-point pen, and his head resting against his thick notebook. I pushed his fringe away from his face, noting the sweat on his brow, and rested his head against my lap. My fingers slid onto his neck, feeling the thickness of his artery and I breathed easier. He was still alive.

Curiosity compelled me to read his thoughts. And what I read tore me completely apart.

In messy, barely decipherable hand-writing it read:

“Death. It’s coming. I don’t know why this is in God’s plan for me, but I know I can’t deny it any longer. I’m willing to go if that is what He is asking of me.

…………………..

But death isn’t what saddens me.

It is knowing that I have never fallen in love, and I will never get to know it.

I’ll never get to feel the rush of butterflies in my stomach when I kiss her. Or knowing just how angry I’ll get when we’re on the verge of possibly losing it all. Or the emptiness of not having her beside me every waking moment. Or the joy of just knowing that my presence is what keeps her alive and sane.

I’ll never get to know that feeling of hopelessness and hope all at the same time.

Why do some get to bask in the glory of love while some of us never get to feel even one ray of that light?”

I didn’t realize I was crying until I felt his fingertips brush against my chin. He wasn’t looking at me clearly by then. His eye-sight had been completely lost—lost in the milky film that had developed over his brown orbs. But even then, I felt like he was looking straight through me. Like he knew—like he knew that I would have done anything, anything, to have him be loved.

And he kissed me gently.

And it was one of those kisses that would always have a greater meaning.

Because he loved me even when I couldn’t see him.

And he knew that I loved him.

The next morning I heard the sound of a shutter clicking. Then I woke up to the cold air and the head-splitting silence.

He was gone.

Now, I’m left with a photograph of that final moment: a picture of his smiling face and his glazed over eyes that stared right into the camera and straight into my soul.

He made me understand why we should not waste this time we have on not loving— but on why we should love.