'Still Here' - A Short Story (Complete)

Still Here
A short story by Kynlee Nichols

Everyone spoke about him in the past tense, like it was a language I hadn’t learned yet. He was gone. Yet... He was still here.

I saw him every day. He was in the bathroom, cackling as I slipped on my cat at 3 a.m. His scent still clung to the old grey hoodie I borrowed-one I will never get to return. In the songs we used to blare, trying to drown out the world when it got too loud. In the vase on my dresser that once held roses he bought me, now withered away with the story of him.

The sounds were there. The people chattering, the crying mother, my father faking smiles to hide his internalized homophobia. I was present, but a million miles away. My tears a silent storm, splattering against my fists-curled into the “nice” pants I was forced to wear.

His mother gave teary speeches; his father rubbing her back in silent support. But none of it was truly about him. “He was born…he died…he had…” The speeches more a plot outline than a manuscript, hell maybe not even a draft compared to the swirling typhoon he was.

He wasn’t being remembered as him, he was being remembered as his story.

No one will remember that his favorite color was red, that he always wore cherry chapstick. They’ll not know he once smuggled a mouse into the garage when he was five ‘cause he wanted a pet. Everyone will forget he hated every subject but art class; that art was his passion. His paintings will be taken off the walls, his pictures torn from frames by those with shattered hearts-leaving him to be nothing but a distant memory.

I tried grasping that memory, tried not to forget-but his image was already blurring at the edges. Had his eyes been light, or a darker brown? The thought escaped my grief-scattered mind, and it’d only been a month since that night.

I love him so much. I love the way he holds me at night, the way he kisses me like it’d be the last time, how he holds my hand as if it were as natural as breathing.

“That’s present tense, hun… Are you okay?” Everyone asks.

Of course I’m not okay. 

He’s my happy ever after, he’s the star to guide me through the darkness. The fire on a cold winter night saves your life, but he saves mine.

He’s still here.

I see him every day, and every night in the dreams that echo lingering memories of his presence.

Author's Note

Did you like this (very short) short story? Let me know!

Reviews

[hullab]

hello kynlee
Yeah! I liked this story, it is short but extremely evocative, top marks for " Swirling Typhoon ".
Familial familiarity versus loving friendship, the devils in the detail and with who and what we share, formality for the many speaks to people please, while intimate passion includes few.
I don't read a story with a critical eye for grammatical accuracy; I'm looking for warmth and feeling , for me, this story hits the spot. Well done, Hullab.