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            I always see it in my head; all the time, it replays over and over again. It’s as if I’m there; we’re strolling along the shore. I’m sitting on behind him while he’s controlling the bike. I can feel the cool breeze blow against my face, repelling the warmth of the setting sun as it places gentle kisses upon my skin; I can even hear the rocking waves as they overpower the soft, occasional squeals of the front tire and the rapid ticks and clicks of the bicycle gears. The sky emanates a pink blush color over the reflective water and the seaside, tinting everything into a pale pinkish-purple color, even washing our white uniform collared shirts into a slight peach shade. The seaside smells like rock salts and scents of the fresh seawater that cleanse the rocks and stones that lay upon the shore. We move smoothly above the wide cement pathway that lines the shore, and I hang onto him as I watch his short, dark hair move with the wind; I hug him securely, fastening my grip around his waist as he pedals further and further. The pleasant scent of his freshly washed uniform (probably washed in the early morning by his caring grandmother out of habit as a part of her everyday agenda) is comforting; it smells like sweet detergent and my bed-sheets.

The ride is quiet for the most-part; we just listen to the sea, but sometimes he speaks, and whenever he does so, I admit that I melt. He finds no reason to speak any louder than he naturally does, and his soothing, tender yet quiet voice always catches my attention, making me want to listen to him talk even more; I could listen to him talk for as long as I live. The way he says my name to make sure I didn’t fall asleep for the span of time that we were biking comforts me even more, to know he cares, to know he is there, to know he remembers me; I respond by slightly leaning my head against his back, feeling the soft cotton of his shirt against my face (it’s as soft as my favorite blanket), and I iterate his name, “Zitao, Zitao”, then proceed to rest my head on his back. It’s a little game we play as he rides the bike while I sit behind him; he says my name, I say his name back, I lay my head on him, and I can sense him smile which causes me to smile. Then I hug him tighter and watch the view of the town and the water as I occasionally swing my feet back and forth up in the air. He keeps pedaling and pedaling and pedaling. I don’t know where we’re going; we’re just following the sea.

I can never forget this. I can never unsee it, and I never want that to happen. He's not here with me, and my heart aches. This moment and him are all I want to remember. 

Nothing else, always.