All That I Know: a story on love and dreams

You can say anything you want

I tried again. Twice. Thrice.

I grabbed my phone and pressed the call button under Oscar's name. I heard it, a slight buzzing that was so faint I had to listen carefully to hear it. I knocked on the door again, calling out his name to open the door.

Weirdly, there was no response, and I knew that Oscar would never leave his phone behind. He was practically addicted to it. Giving it a good thought, I felt a pull of instinct towards one of the possible places where he could be.

Going up the fire exit, I reached the rooftop. The door was ajar and when I pushed it open, I saw a flash of bright yellow, someone sitting on a wooden cot.

The wooden cot had been left on the rooftop many weeks ago and I had come with Oscar here twice to drink a few beers. Oscar was staring into the space, unmoving and I inwardly sighed with relief that he was alright and not somewhere dead in a ditch.

I stood a whisper behind him.

When I said his name, I could see his shoulders relax but he made no attempt to turn around. I wrapped my arms around him, sitting behind him and placing my cheek on his shoulder.

"What's going on?"

"I can't do this," he said softly.

Do what, Oscar? Tell me. Tell me what you can't do, and I'll do it for you.

Except it wasn't that simple.

"I can't do all this. I can't wake up and go to class and study about God-knows what. I can't take another business meeting with dad, watching him flaunt the luxurious lifestyle, talking about shares and what to do to build wealth. I can't live that way, New York."

I bit back my tongue. I wanted to tell him how privileged he was. I wanted to say: Do you know how many people would kill to be in your place right now? How many children want to be able to go to university? How money is not easy to find, and you are practically swimming in it?

But I knew what he'd say. He'd tell me I didn't understand and there is nothing I feared more than to not understand Oscar or to be the source of his unhappiness.

I asked him: What do you want to do?
His answer was: I want to make music.
I began to reason with him.

Study first. Pursue it as a hobby. You're twenty years old, Oscar. Don't go that route. You don't know what you want!

We began to argue.

I know what I want. I want everything but this! I want to try and to do something with myself. I want to be able to not rely on dad's money while doing what I want. I want that!

"I want to give it a try, New York. You must trust me."

I didn't. I knew Oscar was making a decision based on his heart and I was supposed to be his sense of mind – his sense of logic.

"If you love me," he began and he didn't have to finish the sentence.

"I love you," I finally said, a hand going to press against his cheek. "I love you. I love you like that."

The heavy feeling that was around my chest popped with release and tears began to flow. Though my body was light, a knot was forming at the pit of my stomach.

"You do?" he asked, turning around to see me crying.

I nodded. His eyes searched mine and he leaned in and pressed his forehead against mine, lips lingering an inch away.

We sat there; eyes closed with the humming of the wind.

I love you, Oscar. But I have a feeling that while I truly and deeply Iove you, you will be taken away from me.