“Riley,” he says, his voice hoarse from his own fear—his fear of me and my form of crazy.

“So I write him these letters,” I tell him. “I try to remember him, every moment of our lives and I write them down so I don’t forget them, because I don’t want to forget him. I don’t want his life and our love to become a generic quote. To one day mean nothing.” I take a breath and make sure he’s looking at me when I add, “Because he meant everything to me, Dylan.”

I start to pick up the letters, placing them carefully back in their jars, trying to do everything I can to avoid reading them. Because it’s already bad enough that I’ve bled my heart to Dylan, I don’t need the reminder of the guilt to add to the pain.

He drops to his knees in front of me and picks up the notes, opening each one and reading them before handing them to me. He doesn’t speak when he does it. He just takes his time, being as careful as I am when he unfolds and refolds them. And when we’re done, he leans back against the bed, his eyes on the ceiling and my broken heart weighing heavily in his hands. He stays that way for minutes, hours, who knows? Then he drops his gaze, looking at me silently crying in front of him.

“What happened to him?” he asks, and I shake my head. It’s one memory I don’t want to remember.

“Will you tell me about him?”

I release a sob. “What?”

He pushes off the bed and moves closer to me, his legs crossed as his hands reach for mine. “Not the memories you have of him or the things you did or the color of his eyes. Tell me about him, the boy who loved you.”

I look over at the full bottle of wine on my nightstand.

“No,” he says, his finger on my chin, making me face him again. “Let me be your alcohol. Let me dull your pain.”

I cry into my hands, free and uncontrolled and louder than I ever let myself cry.

“Come here,” he pulls me with him until he’s lying on his back, my head on his chest as he strokes my hair. He holds me to him while I cry. Not from grief. Not from anger. Not from missing someone so badly I don’t know how to get through the next hour, let alone the next day, but I cry because it’s all too much. Too real. Too raw. And for the first time ever, I allow myself to cry for me.

For my loss.

“Start from the beginning,” Dylan says. “Tell me how you met. How he asked you out. Where he took you on the first date. Your first kiss. Tell me how he made you feel. Tell me how he loved you.”

I sniff back my heartbreak and look up at him. “Why?”

“Because, Riley,” he says, kissing the top of my head. “I plan on loving you like he did.”

*     *     *

It was English class. Sophomore year. We were studying Shakespeare, watching the “modern” version of Romeo and Juliette. You were sitting next to me leaning on the back legs of your chair messing around with your friends. You were the popular Jock. I was the quiet, get-through-the-day girl. You and your friends started talking louder and louder and I lost it. I turned to you all and told you to be quiet so I could focus. You dropped your chair forward, your eyes wide and on me. “Excuse me?” you asked.

“You heard me. Shut up. Some of us are here to actually learn.”

Your friends laughed. You didn’t. You just kept looking at me. “Riley, right?”

I rolled my eyes.

You leaned forward, your forearm on my desk and your voice low. “You really think some old dude like Shakespeare wrote this shit so hundreds of years later a bunch of punk teenagers can rip it to shreds in order to get some score out of a hundred… so some self-righteous adult who once ripped the same material to shreds can give said teenager a number in comparison to how he feels about Shakespeare’s life’s work?”

Shaking my head, I glared at you and pushed your arm off my desk. “I don’t need to hear your bullshit opinion. I just want you to shut up.”

Your friends laughed again.

And again, you didn’t.

Instead, you turned around and told them all to be quiet.

You were their leader—an opinionated ass of a leader.

“Let the lady learn,” you shouted.

I yelled at you to shut up.

We both got detention.

And when the class was over I stood up and started packing my bag. You stood, too, right by my table, waiting for me to finish. When I was done, you took my hand in yours and placed your lips on the back of it, kissing it once.

I stood still, not knowing what to do… and annoyed that my first kind-of-kiss from a boy was from you. Then you smiled. “Sweet Riley,” you announced. “Parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say good night till it be morrow… at detention.”

We fell in like in an otherwise empty classroom of detention.

We fell in love in the stands at one my swim meets.

We fell in forever at senior prom, while we danced under the twinkling lights with crowns on our heads at the highest point of our short-lived future. “Riley,” you whispered, my hands on your chest and your arms around my waist.

I looked up at you.

Then you spoke. “My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite.”

*     *     *

I sit up and look down at Dylan, his eyes sad and unfocused. He hasn’t said a word since I started remembering Jeremy. “I don’t think I ever felt worthy of him,” I say, wiping my tears.