There is a New York City apartment right around the corner of 84th and York that I call home.
I don’t think it’s because you knew exactly which hanger would always go perfectly with my leather jacket; not even the fact that I spent many nights cooking you dinner in that adorably small kitchen. I don’t think it because you had a pair of pyjamas in there that somehow became my pair. I don’t even think it was the fact that the left side of the bed—the side that was closest to the window, the one where had you reached behind the mattress, you’d find lost chapsticks and eternal gratitude and love—was my side.
Because home was you, and all of the love that you gave me.
The apartment in Yorkville kept me warm during the polar vortex that came straight from hell, and you reminded me time and time again to get warmer clothes; I just never listened. Because living on a sunny island an then moving to Los Angeles meant subzero temperatures were not in my vocabulary. Which is how I ended up with numb fingers and lips, until you bought me a pair of gloves that warmed my heart. Gloves that I wear even now, unnecessarily of course, but they still keep me warm across the Atlantic and I think of you.
Do you remember how cold it was in your bedroom those first fall months? When you told me how brutally cold it was even though the heating was on and the rest of the apartment was boiling hot. I remember all the fun we had trying to keep ourselves warm—how many nights we spent making tea and playing board games a bit too competitively with each other (because, man I love you but I always have to win)—until we both realized there was cold air coming from your A/C, which we never bothered removing from your window.
Instead, I had gone out into the city to find some window insulation that not only would save you at nights, but would also stop the cold from virtually attacking my skin. I get my handiness from my dad, whom I’m sure you’d love because he’s the best guy in the entire world (probably the entire universe), and I don’t see how anyone can compete with him. He’s the kind of dad who turns down tickets to the World Cup Final just so he can help me with my exams (and maybe that’s where I got it from; why I turned down a project just so I could spend more time with you during those final days). In any case, I hope one day you’ll meet him although I’m not exactly sure how I’d introduce you to him, but I’ll work on that daydream for another time because now, and only for now, I’m back on my knees in front of your window, putting up the installation.
I don’t remember much else form that day—I don’t remember whether we were going out for lunch and sushi or breakfast and crepes—but I remember leaving you to entertain yourself with your roommate and her boyfriend (whom I most definitely did not hear having morning sex) as I was determined to save the day.
Come to think of it, I wanted to do everything. I fixed that gaps that nibbled around the A/C; and then for extra measure, we closed the air vent. I was proud for barricading the room and no more cold came through the night to take us away from the warmth.
I really don’t know why this memory has been on my mind for the last twenty-four hours; I just think it’s because you’ve been on my mind since Friday. Not that I don’t think about you every single hour of ever single day; not that I don’t daydream about the day when I get to see you again, when I get a call from you saying you’ve booked your tickets and that you’re coming, you’re finally coming. But this is different. This is missing you so much that the cold doesn’t bother me any more. This is me missing you so much that last night I made the journey to Camden without any regard for the cold that was butchering the people around me. (I did pair my leather jacket with your gloves, though.) I cut through the 30-degree night like I couldn’t care less of what it was doing to my body.
Because the only thing I cared about was the way your hands warmed up the coldest, darkest, and sickest parts of me.
Thoughtfully, Yours 