Why do I remember his hand so well?

He embraced me, wrapping me up, and pulling me closer to him. He smiled, his lips curling upwards at the ends while the middle part of his lips spread wide. I think that’s how people make their eyes sparkle. Eye sparkles are created when a mischievous, gleeful smile brought about by a particular type of joy for the person you love peels across your face. He made that smile when he left for his class that day, just after I had bookended one of our lighthearted, flirty conversations over breakfast with a crappy joke. We had those conversations most mornings.

I can’t remember what color he said he dyed his hair in high school.

I was very lucky to have a partner like him. Our schedules almost perfectly aligned, and we were both morning people (it is very rare to meet a true morning person who also was gay). Most who wake up in the morning do it out of obligation: for work, to go to the gym, or force themselves out of care for their “mental health” but are still depressed. I was on sabbatical, but I didn’t let myself sleep in. Every moment I was awake was given to my research. Most gay people don’t believe in God, but we knew there was something divine about the morning when we were together.

I can’t even remember what color his eyes were.

I washed the dishes, since my class didn’t start for another hour. Because of the size of my department, I had to teach one class while on sabbatical, since my work wasn’t abroad and can be easily interrupted without delaying anything or harming experiments. Simon and I usually swapped washing dishes duties in the morning depending on our class schedules. It’s a small thing, but support for one another without having to ask is unlike anything else. We can start a new semester, wake up groggy, or just simply be worked up by the dishes, and, no matter what, the other one will silently notice those facts and take over dish duty. No questions. Just utter care.

He seemed like he was only one inch taller than me, but what was his height?

I went to my class. It was “Intro to Afro-Futurism,” my favorite course. It almost didn’t seem like work, which is probably the only reason I agreed to teach the course during my sabbatical. I remember we were discussing our latest chapters of Kindred and listening to commentary from the author, Octavia E. Butler, when it happened. There was no physical change, and I was none the wiser.

I’m broken.

I tripped. I never trip. Not now, and not then. But I tripped. There wasn’t anything to trip over. My copy of the book fell, and its pages bent as I toppled onto it. My head hit the floor hard, and my vision blurred, flashing with white for a few seconds. A few of my students rushed over to me while others simply stood, eyes wide, mouths agape. “Dr. Montague! Are you okay?” There was a nursing student who had found her way into my class. She was always my favorite. She helped me sit up a bit and asked if I could see her. She asked me how many fingers she was holding up. I told her two. There were really three.

Why do I remember his hand so well?

She had another student phone the nurse hotline for the university. The phone just rang, and rang, and rang. My teacher’s assistant, Tracy, drove me to a nearby clinic, but no one was at the front desk. Tracy called out, sitting me in the waiting room while she checked all of the rooms. Tracy called the nursing student from my class and asked her what they’d need to treat my concussion and gathered all of the supplies we needed, as it was clear no one else was around. We went outside to find several cars idling in the parking lot that we hadn’t noticed when we got out. Across the street, a car had hit a lamppost, and its hood leaked smoke. A breeze shook the leaves of the trees nearby, drawing my attention to the lack of noise from around us. We were right next to campus on the busiest street in town, but no cars drove past, no child’s laughter could be heard, and no one walked by.

What did he cook for me that morning before I never saw him again?

We returned to campus to find all of my students in front of the building talking to a large group of confused people. I saw some of my husband’s students and asked them where he was and what was happening. Some of them spoke of not seeing anyone else in town or around campus. Some saw people vanish—disappear as if they were never there. One person was holding hands with another when they vanished.

I stumbled backwards, swaying slightly as I shifted direction and sprinted towards the building with my husband’s office. A dread sunk deep into my chest, hollowing my insides. I what I’d find there. This office was empty, but his motion activated lights were already on. A printer whirred in the corner as he printed off the 300-page manuscript of the final draft of my novel. It stopped shortly after I arrived. On his desk, I found his phone lying face down and his fountain pen fallen diagonally across the first few pages of my manuscript, now splattered with ink. He just finished writing a comment in the margins: “A wonderful showcase of your immense talent. The dynamics on page one are succinctly laid out—without dialogue! We already understand the history these two characters have without knowing their names or the specifics. Excellent!”

I miss the smell of his coffee. I can’t forget it. It won’t leave me.

My face contorted. I gasped out a scream of anguish welling up from a deep, shattered place within my chest. I grabbed a piece of my shirt and crumpled it in my hands. If he was anywhere near there, he would’ve come running. He would have known it was my heart breaking in two; he would have known the sound of my pain as it violently exploded up and through my throat.

I remember the heat of his chest against the side of my head.

I stumbled home. I didn’t send any emails about class cancelation. I didn’t respond to the flurry of messages I received. I didn’t scream anymore. I didn’t cry anymore. I waited for the morning.

I remember the movement his breath caused as he breathed.

The power went out at some point. No people left to maintain the power grid.

I remember how his chest would jerk as he laughed.

I stayed up all night, simply waiting for our morning breakfast to come. The sun rose.

Without looking at him, I could feel his mouth curl up on the edges as the middle broke into a wide smile.

I stared blankly. My eyes unfocused. I still had my jeans on. They were uncomfortable.

He kissed my forehead in the same spot every time. He did so that morning.

Dawn came. I made breakfast. I touched the spot where he’d kiss me on the forehead.

I remember the feeling of his fingertips and his palm. I remember the texture differences across his hand. I remember tracing the veins along his arm. I remember twirling a circle around the crease of his elbow—all the way around it, like a lasso. I remember curving along his bicep and feeling the hard bone below the skin of his shoulder before feeling the slight give of lighter muscles and nerves on his neck. I remember tracing my way up his face and cupping his cheek in my hand. I remember gently pulling him towards me, leading him towards my lips. I don’t remember how it felt for him to kiss me.