At the beginning

I hope we last. I hope we do.

But if we don’t, this is how I want you to remember me:

I want you to remember me curled up, listening to the sound of your heartbeat and tracing maps across your skin. How five minutes turn to fifteen, half an hour, two. Lunches and classes we’d miss here and there because we never seemed to get enough time on our hands. Remember me laughing at your jokes, even the stupid ones. And even more, me laughing at my own jokes, the corny ones. Remember all the songs you couldn’t stop listening to, and how I made you listen to a single album on repeat for days to end. All the playlists we’ve curated together. all the karaoke trips down memory lane, my solo ballad performances—a private show—in languages you didn’t understand.

Remember me in hysterics for absolutely no reason—what I concede were mood switches (as opposed to mood swings)—and in tears because one time you made me so sad neither of us thought I’d recover. All the talks that pierced through our nights and bled into the mornings, all the wrongs we each had in the equation, all the words you wished you could undo. But if crazy had a place, I hope it has a space for two. Remember all that, but more importantly, remember the days that followed—remember me laying on your chest planning for the coming weekend, listing the museums, restaurants, movies, we would watch.

Remember me brave, that time you held my hand and I thought I was going to die; remember me scared and gentle and delicate and breakable—only for you though, only for you. Remember how strong we were, how strong you are.

Remember the way I was too stubborn to talk to you, and all the ridiculous ways I tried to get your attention. All the missed calls, the unreplied messages, the sticker spam, and how absolutely insane it drove the both of us. Remember how difficult I made it for you to get through the door: asking for the secret passcode and food offerings.

Remember all the firsts and how they were so delightful we went back for seconds and thirds and fourths. All the late night car rides, and later, daylong adventures too. New dessert houses, and supper spots—how we would be absolutely obsessed with chicken tenders for a week straight, milk teas after every dinner.

Remember the secrets we’d shared about our childhoods—how similar they were—hushed under the thick cloud of blanket, and the childish dreams you allowed yourself about the future—yours, mine, ours. If it’s any consolation, I allowed myself to have them too.

And most of all, remember me happy—so, so happy. Remember the alcohol-infused birthday cupcakes, singing cards, random trivia on social media. Remember my stories about life—imagined and real—and ideas—ambitious and hopeful. Remember all the card games we played, wagering the most ridiculous things. Remember the poems I’d read to you, and the art pieces I’d made, all breathing your memory, sculpted in your name. Remember every moment, because I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

If it comes to it, I don’t want you to remember the ending.

Remember the beginning. Remember the first time you knew.