On love - Part XIII

- Are you still alive, he asked me, his eyes glowing like newly cut diamonds under my sheer silk covers. Looking at him made me loose my breath for a second.

- Is that a philosophical question?

- No, it's just that listening to your heartbeats makes me so frightened. What if I'll hear the very last one, what would I do then?

I was laying face up on his outstretched right arm, the other one resting softly across my hip. We had escaped the burning summer sun by running away to my bed, hiding under cool layers of fabric and our most sincere melancholy.

- I wanted it to be the philosophical one, I said.

- And what would the answer be if it was?

I really didn't know what to say, I just wanted him to know that being with him made me feel alive for the first time in years. But saying those important things is so much harder than it sounds, because everything has to be just right or they're just wasted moments, like sunshine on an otherwise cloudy day.

- What does it even mean, I said. Being alive?

He slowly ran his fingers through my hair, as if he was expecting a more elaborate and eloquent answer. I looked deep inside myself for what felt like an eternity, searching for the right words without finding them. I don't think I've ever felt more desperate.

- I know that I want to be alive, I said. I want to feel alive.

I could sense him wishing for what I deep down wanted to say, that I didn't have to wonder what it was like anymore, that he made me live in a way I never had before. And all I could do was look at him, exploring his face without even giving him a smile. He was too close to me, mentally and physically, I didn't want to waste the moment by saying the wrong things, so I didn't say anything at all. He looked away for a second, as if to distance himself from the silence.

- I think you're alive, he said. And I'm glad that you are.