I Remember

Do you remember the summers we spent, sitting around the fire? As everyone else exchanged stories or mostly meaningless small talk, it was where I met you first; the way your eyes were glazed over, fixated blankly at the sparks that would fly off and dissipate into the night sky. 

I didn't know much about you; only that you came to San Diego every summer, and disappeared for the rest of the year. I'd see you around with your friends as I skateboarded down the street with my brother, Mike, and at the beach several blocks away from my house. All the neighborhood teenagers would set up the nightly bonfire as far away as possible where the city lights faded to a dull glow, just background noise. 

It wasn't until the night of June 28th, at approximately 11:25pm when everyone was already comfortable around the fire, the cooler of drinks already mostly empty. It was your typical teenage hangout—you had the couples making out, groups of friends huddled together, kids pretending to be occupied on their phones until their friends arrived, marshmallows being burnt, games of Truth-Or-Dare, the occasional bad horror story. I brought along my guitar that night thanks to Mike's suggestion; only recently did I gather the courage to start playing in front of people out of fear of not being good enough.

But that didn't matter—I was fooling around with one of my favorite blink-182 songs when you sidled up next to me, humming along knowingly. I was so surprised that I dropped my pick into the sand and nearly slid out of my seat on the log, blushing like I'd never blushed before. I remember hearing you laugh for the first time; it was crisp, melodic, music to my ears.

"You have good taste in music, dude. I'm Kellin, by the way," were the first words you'd ever speak to me.

And as the night progressed on, we talked about music and our favorite bands and argued over which Fall Out Boy album was better. Maybe it was the alcohol that made conversation flow so easily, maybe it was just your irresistible charisma; either way, there was no denying the certain connection that flickered between us.

When the night began to die down, and I had to drag Mike's drunk ass back home for the few hours until dawn, you shyly asked for my number and I left with a permanent grin curling at my lips, one that would remained for the rest of the classic sun-glazed San Diego summer.

I remember the first time you sang for me; it was The Goo Goo Doll's "Iris", and by the time the final note lingered in the air, I had forgotten how to breathe and you whined that I was staring at you and making you feel self-conscious, when really I was stunned. Blown away. I don't think you believed me that first time, but no matter.

I remember going over to your house for the first time; or at least, your grandparents' house that you'd stay in every summer. Your room was painted a pale blue, dull in comparison to the color of your eyes, and you proudly showed me your collection of vinyls and the posters and art that graced your walls. You had opened up the window and crawled out onto the roof ledge below, a pack of cherry cigarettes in one hand and a lighter in the other—you blew the smoke in my direction when I refused to follow after you. I admitted my fear of heights and you laughed. "I won't let you fall," you promised, your eyes still crinkled at the edges from laughter, and I believed it.

I remember it was where we shared our first cherry-flavored kiss, a faraway glimpse of the beloved beach where we first met. More like you kissed me—I think I was too surprised to respond right away.

And that was the way we spent the rest of the lazy, blissful summer. We went to festivals and Warped Tour and fooled around town (I can't even begin to count the number of times we had gotten kicked out of Wal-Mart) and by the time the summer was over, it truly felt as if I had known you for so much longer than over the span of a few months, and no combination of letters in the alphabet could describe the feeling I got when I admitted I was falling in love with you and you said it back.

We both cried at the San Diego International Airport and we swore we would keep in touch and you pressed your lips against mine for the last time.

The weeks following, we'd skype all the time—I'd wake up a little earlier to be up when you were up, you'd stay awake a little later to tell me about your day. The difference in time zones really wasn't all that bad as we smiled stupidly at our computer screens, thousands of miles apart.

One day, when I got home from school, you weren't online like you normally were. I had brushed it off; you were probably out with friends and couldn't answer your phone either. But a few days more, the doubt began to settle in:
Why isn't he answering his phone or my texts
Why isn't he online
Does he hate me?

And I ran to your grandparents' house, banging on the door and they tearfully told me what happened, reluctant words no one should ever have to hear.

"He was hit by a car on the way home from school, which sent him into a coma. He'll be okay though; Kellin's a strong boy."

I ran back out, stumbling blindly in the broad daylight and found myself at the beach, clutching to the same log we met for the first time all those weeks ago. I didn't want to picture you, paler than usual (do you remember the jokes we made every time you got sunburned, and then I'd rub the sunburn lotion over your red cheeks and tell you we didn't really mean it with a peck of the lips) and I didn't want to picture you still and unmoving and the warmth leeched right out of your skin.

Months later, the calls and texts still go unanswered; they must surely be flooding your phone, because sometimes I'll still send you a quick message out of hopes that suddenly you'll reply and everything will be okay.

Do you still remember, do you still think of me in your thoughts?

I do. All the time.