Aphonia.

“I missed you,” I whisper, as though it hasn’t been obvious enough.

I run a hand through his silky soft hair, tangling my fingers in his golden-brown locks, and place little kisses all over his face and neck. I make sure not to miss any bit of his soft, tender skin; I make sure to claim all of it mine. As I press my lips against his, I’m thinking of all the things I won’t be able to hear anymore - from his sweet words, to those gentle lullabies, to the moans of my name in the midsts of the nights.

He pushes me away slightly by my shoulders, and simply gazes into my eyes. The look on his face spells out an overdue ‘sorry’; one I wish I could, just once, hear with my own ears, but alas, that’d be impossible now. I don’t respond to his implied apology; I simply pull him by the chin and kiss him once more, because it’s all I feel like doing. I don’t want to break the silence; I don’t want to come to the realization that this is how it’ll be from now on - not yet.

So, I simply go on like this; I pretend that we’d just rather occupy our lips with each other’s than with words. I pretend that the silence is romantic, because in a way, it kind of is. I pretend that the way we’re not using words simply shows how well we can read each other without them. I pretend that he’s not speaking because he doesn’t want to, and not because he can’t.

When we pull away for oxygen, there’s a small, sad smile on his beautiful face. It makes me want to cry, really, because it’s so much worse than any other time I’ve seen him upset. It’s worse than the time he lost his voice and had to cancel the concert and upset thousands of fans at the last minute, or when he failed his very first auditions for that local singing competition, or that point in his life when he wasn’t sure of anything anymore because they’d told him he was untalented and would forever be nothing but a dreamer like the millions of others out there.

But he proved them wrong. He proved them all wrong; those so-called “experts” of music. He’d vowed that he would show them; that one day, he’d get on that stage, for thousands of fans who’d be screaming his name in envy and excitement. And you know what? He did.

But this? As much as I’d love for him to, and as much as I’d love to believe otherwise, he can’t prove the experts wrong this time. He can’t prove the doctors wrong. And maybe that’s what saddens him most; he’s been able to pass all the obstacles he’s been through so far in his life with hard work, time and commitment. But for once, all those secret ingredients won’t work. For once, he can’t do anything about his condition, no matter how hard he tries. He’s just got to accept and adapt to the circumstances.

I look back at him, cup his cheeks in my hands, and give him one last, long kiss before finally breaking the silence. “I’m sorry,” I barely mouth, because I don’t know what else to say. I’ve already said everything I could to try to cheer him up; now, only time can heal his wounds.

He shakes his head and puts a finger to my lips, his tiny smile turning slightly warmer. It’s a shy smile now; one that says something along the lines of It’s not your fault and Don’t apologize. And even though I know so, I can’t help it. I can’t help but wish that saying sorry and forgive me - be it to him, to God or to whoever’s causing this - will stop this innocent boy’s pain. I can’t help but try my luck at anything that could wake us from this nightmare.

That’s the problem, though, isn’t it? This isn’t your ordinary nightmare. It’s a living nightmare. For the both of us.

But finally being able to hold him in my arms like this and call him my own, being able to spend hours and hours with him, and not have to share him with the world all over again; call me selfish, but maybe I prefer things this way.

And as long as we have each other, maybe it’s not so bad. Maybe we’ll be able to get through this, together. Maybe it really isn’t a nightmare, after all. Maybe, just maybe, this is all a blessing in disguise.