Luca and Theo

Part One: Theo

We cooked together, and we ate together, and we loaded the dishwasher together. He did our laundry, and I did our vacuuming. He slept on the left side of the bed, and I slept on the right. He fed our cat breakfast, and I fed her dinner. He filled his wardrobe with soft jumpers, and I wore them instead of him. And everything about our life made sense, because Luca and I — simply put — fit.

We made sense.

And when my anxiety took over, and my depression felt so heavy that I could barely hold it, Luca was the only thing in my life that I could still understand. Because he was real, and solid, and strong enough that I didn't have to be.

There were others' too. Milo, who I spoke to on the phone almost every day. Tommy, who never lost the title of 'best friend'. Phoenix, who was so bright that he cast a shadow over everything else.

Healing was a long and endless road. And though there was no final destination, I had people in my life that made that road a little easier to walk down. And so, I would keep walking it, until my legs ached, and my heart burned. For myself, and for everyone else, too. I would walk it until the day I died.

But really, I was happy.

I had a boyfriend I loved, and friends I loved, and a job I loved, and a flat I loved, in a country I loved.

I had a cat, too.

I loved her even when I didn't particularly like her.

I was woken by the sound of shouting coming from the kitchen. I groaned, rolling onto my side, a beam of sunlight hitting my eyes. There was purring beside me, coming from a chubby cat with ears that were too big on her. I scratched her under the chin, and murmured good morning.

I tuned into the sound of Luca's voice, and noticed that he was speaking in English. That meant that he was on the phone to one of our friends from the UK, and not any of our Dutch friends.

I sighed, dragging myself out of bed, and tugging a jumper over my pyjamas. It was cold in the winter months, a chill rolling across the vast fields, and pressing against the thin walls of our apartment. We lived just outside of Amsterdam, a short bike ride away from the city centre. Though, in the Netherlands, everything was just a short bike ride away.

I paused in the doorway of the kitchen, crossing my arms over my chest, and watching my boyfriend — who was covered in flour — argue with his phone.

"I knew that the batter would be too thick!" He groaned in frustration, "And I swear to fucking god, Milo, if you tell me to add more milk, I'm gonna get on the next plane to England and—" He swivelled around, his eyes widening when they met mine, "Shit."

I chuckled, "No, please, continue."

Luca pulled his phone away from his ear, and hung up without even bidding Milo goodbye. "You weren't meant to wake up yet." He blurted out.

"Sorry?"

"I was trying to be a good boyfriend by bringing you breakfast in bed."

A smile broke out on my face, "R-Really?"

He nodded, scratching the back of his neck bashfully, "Really."

"And you were doing that by...arguing with my brother?"

"You know how bad I am at cooking." He said sheepishly, "And I really wanted to get it right for you because it's your—" He froze, as if suddenly remembering something important. He rushed towards me, and his hands fell to their favourite resting spot: my hips. "It's your birthday." He finished, tugging me closer, and pressing a kiss to my cheek, "Happy birthday, Theo."