Everyone could see him. He was the same man he was the night he left. Except now, his suit was more dapper (I paid a lot for it), his hair was groomed better than ever, and his hands held his mother’s rosary.

I hated the way he looked.

Back when he had been mine, his hair was never so nice or sleek. He brushed it out in the morning and didn’t care. He never gave it any sort of thought. It was always carefree and in the wind. Like him.

Back when he was mine, he never wore a suit unless it was a fancy occasion. He hated suits. He hated how they reminded him of his grandfather, the bastard who threw him and his mother out. He hated how they made him feel. He never wanted to feel like his grandfather.

He didn’t have a choice now though.

Back during our times, he never used a rosary. He used to say that faith was an illusion, that he would live life how he pleased without ramification. He didn’t believe in the deities or gods. He claimed that he was a free man, not enslaved to religion or sacrifice.

It was silly thought to think about how. I wondered if he was meeting God right now. I wondered if He was despairing him to an eternity in hell after he said that. I was always taught in the Catholic schools I attended that our God was a forgiving one, but who really knew the truth about Him? He was a mystery. A ghost. Now like my boyfriend.

His mother’s tears drenched her dress. Her sorrow seemed real, but I knew it was all an act. She never cared about him. That’s why he was at my place every day. That’s why he cried at night when he thought I was asleep. Her and her screams and abuse.

Yet her I was, lettting it pass by.

The first tear fell down my cheek. We should have had more time. We planned on more time. Now, we had nothing. There was never enough time.

I couldn’t stand up for him. I couldn’t give him my love. I couldn’t promise him that everything would be alright. I couldn’t hold him. I couldn’t make a scene.

_Don’t make a scene._

__

_Don’t make a scene._

I had to stay strong and determined. I had to be the root in the ground, the one carrying him on in my heart. I had to be his legacy. I had to be his story.

I was the only one who would carry him on in 50 years. I was the only one who would truly ever know him. I was the only one left for him.

And what could I do for him? What great thing could I provide him in the end? What was my last act of love for him?

In the end, all I could do was cry.