Sundays

Photo by RF._.studio on Pexels.com
Photo by RF._.studio on Pexels.com

Sundays with you felt as cozy as love hidden between the pages of photo albums, with memories so strong, I couldn’t erase them if I tried. We gorged on butterscotch ice cream at the stroke of midnight, while heaving a sigh of relief about the end of another exhausting week. You’d switch on your annoying football matches at 1am. You’d try to teach me how the game works, and I’d always pretend to understand. You’d laugh. The laughter that was my favorite sound in the world.

You’d make Maggi for us at 3 a.m., to compensate for the disturbance from the TV. You’d stress eat your noodles with shredded cheese, which I always detested, as your favorite team appeared to be losing. You’d make your classic puppy eyes at me. I’d chuckle and give you two spoons from my plate, and I’d see your eyes light up with glee. The eyes I’d gotten lost in, and in which I’d found myself.

I’d wake up in the wee hours of the morning to a freezing cold room, because you’d always set the AC to the lowest temperature. I’d quickly slip into your hoodie that you’d leave for me next to the framed picture of us on the nightstand, and pull you closer to me as I’d snuggle back to sleep in your warmth. The warmth that melted away all my chilling fears.

You’d wake up at 1 p.m., as I’d finally draw the curtains open. “It seems to be pretty hot outside”, I’d say, as I’d giggle at you squinting to avoid the sunlight from blinding you. “Can’t be hotter than you”, you’d smirk. I’d click another sleepy picture of you to add to my collection, while you’d adorably frown. You’d pull me closer and give me a peck with your soft lips. The lips that gave me jitters every time they grazed my own.

It’s been a year since you left. I still stick to our Sunday routine. Butterscotch ice cream. That annoying football game. 3 a.m. Maggi with shredded cheese. Two spoons of it left uneaten. AC at the lowest temperature. Your hoodie on my shivering body. Our picture on the nightstand.

The pain of your death doesn’t seem to fade, as I spend the rest of Sunday drowning myself in memories of you, hidden between our photo albums. They’re all I have left of you.