Here

I hate Christmas.

My girlfriend and I were happy. We were sometimes bullied by society throughout our time together, being in a same-gender relationship, but we were happy.

Happy, that is, until the move.

I said goodbye Christmas Eve. She moved out on Christmas Day.

And holy hell, did it hurt.

I was fine with a long-distance relationship; as long as we were happy with each other, it would turn out all right.

But I found myself unable to think, unable to function without her. I couldn't call her and talk to her, being deaf and all, and she had always told me, If I see you, I'm seeing you in person. Not through a screen.

My grades were slipping. The bullying started to get to me. I hated the distance between us. I hated myself. I just wanted to hold her, kiss her, anything, just one more touch.

But of course, that would never be enough if she wasn't here.

I hate Christmas.

* * *

Honey.

I made no movement to respond to my mother. I continued to stare out the window.

Please, honey, just come downstairs and eat, she signed against my back. I made your favorite.

It was her favorite, too. I signed back, although rather halfheartedly.

Honey, I know it hurts, but starving yourself won't solve anything. You haven't eaten anything in two days.

I hadn't noticed.

My eyes flitted over to her, just in time to see her chest heave with a sigh.

Come downstairs if you get hungry. She signed, turning toward the door.

Okay, Mom.

I turned back to the window, squinting as I watched a familiar rickety car turn the corner and bounce down our street.

It looked like her car, the one she had gotten for her birthday.

She's not here. Stop imagining things.

I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, the car was gone.

And that's when my desk vibrated, as it always did when someone rang the doorbell.

I practically flew down the stairs with no concern for safety, my hope giving me speed.

But it was only her mother.

She hugged me, planted a kiss on my forehead, and just held me, signing, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, over and over again. Please, don't cry. I felt her warm tears on my face.

She's not gone. She's not gone. I signed, over and over again.

But she was, because the doctors had pulled the plug on her life support on Christmas Day.

I said goodbye to her on Christmas Eve.

I pretended.

I pretended she was alive since last Christmas. But now the truth was smacking me around like the students in the crowded hallways of my high school.

No, no, no, I signed, over and over again. She can't be dead.

But she is.

I hate Christmas.