The first time haunted me the most. The sky was dark and it was raining. Coming out of the convenience store with a bag full of milk and tampons, I saw you. Well, I saw your eyes. They were such a bright blue, like the color of aquamarines. Crossing the street, talking on a cell phone, the wind whipped across your umbrella and while struggling with the flailing metal, your eyes happened to meet mine. Freezing at the doorway, I watched your lips part in the darkness, rounded with surprise. Assaulted by the rain, you smiled shyly at me, pink cheeks illuminated by the glow of your phone. And then a car hit you. Your blood splattered against the sidewalk and washed away in the rain. Crumpled in the middle of the road, your eyes met mine, weak and glossy. I blinked and in that second you died.
I was already obsessed by the second time around. I constantly found myself dreaming in tones of aquamarine, bright, dazzling and faded by the rain. It never really made much sense but then again, most dreams don't. Bleeding into my life, I wore the color every chance I got, making it a running joke to all who knew me. On that specific day, I was late to work. Bread hanging haphazardly out of my mouth, I quickly crossed the street, awkwardly fixing my jacket while still holding onto my briefcase. I failed to notice the truck. And as its horn blared and the sun glinted harshly off of its fender, I felt a pair of hands push me from behind. Flying forwards, I heard the undeniable crush of bones and the shrill sound of a woman screaming. As blood seeped under my knees, I looked back and saw you. Taken over by a sense of déjà vu, your eyes met mine, weak and glossy, the exact color from my dreams. Smiling weakly, your hands, covered in blood, twitched and then you died.
The third time around hurt the most. For reasons even beyond myself, I was severely over-cautious of crosswalks. Some of my friends found it hilarious. Others found it annoying. They called it a waste of time. As if something would actually happen. I never did learn how to drive. Instead, I took the metro. But that is irrelevant. However, many things in my life were irrelevant apparently. Like my hand fetish. As it turned out, many men don't expect the reason for a breakup to be unsatisfactory hands. But like I said: irrelevant. It had been a long day. The subway was overcrowded with the evening rush. Waiting on the platform, I could hear the train rushing up. The crowd shuffled with an impatient sort of rowdiness and out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of gold. Entranced by the color, my eyes followed the movement and watched as you fell into the path of the train. Aquamarine eyes wide with fear, your hand reached toward mine. Blindly reaching for it, your hair glowed under the artificial light and when another body held me back, I screamed as your fingers ghosted over mine because that was how you died.
By the fourth time around, I could barely keep myself together. I was scared of cross walks and trains and rainy days and the colors aquamarine and gold and sometimes hands. Waking up crying more times than not, I suffocated on fears I couldn't even remember and every day hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt and I didn't know why and I hated myself for not knowing why and I just wanted it to just stop. I just wanted to stop. Standing on the rooftop, the world looked so small, so insignificant, so useless and with my arms held out, I prepared to fly, to die, goodbye. But the door to the rooftop rattled and slammed, bouncing violently off the wall, vibrating with stifled energy. That was how you arrived. Hands on your knees, panting out of breath, your eyes, so blue, looked at me, desperate and pleading. Your voice, so loud and ragged, yelled out "WAIT!" So I did. Standing on the ledge, I waited because that was what you wanted and I would do anything to stay another second with you. You were a stranger. But I knew: all I ever wanted was you. Reflected in your eyes, I remembered, I could see it, flashing lights and bustling crowds and your eyes, bright and dying, once, twice, three times. I remembered your hands, covered in blood, always out of reach and oddly enough, your hair, the sort of gold that haunted me for no reason at all.
Clutching me to your chest, I could hear your heartbeat, beating louder than my screams. Pulling me off the ledge, you cried as you whispered, "Please don't die" and I realized that I hated you. I hated you for dying, for always leaving me behind, your blue eyes capturing me, and dying and dying and dying, your hands close but never close enough. There were so many words I wanted to say to you. But I couldn't remember any of them at all. All I could comprehend was that I never wanted any of this. But these feelings, inconsequential, tumbled unabashedly from my heart, splattering uselessly on the ground, spread between us both. Drowning in my tears, hanging from your arms, you plead with me to "please stay alive" because "I want to know your name" and goddammit none of this is fair but I want to know it too, who you are, what you are to me, the reason for these messy feelings in my chest.
Shoving you away, your hair caught the light along with my eyes, so bright, like spun gold. Holding me tight with hands just right, you looked at me with eyes the color of aquamarines. Tearing pouring down your cheeks, you smiled and said, "I love you." And oddly enough, I could feel it and I knew that somehow, I loved you too. It would last until death did us part.