Cheng Yun & Caspian


I was so sure that you’d break it off with me when I had my diagnosis. You had so many other suitors, and you were never happy about me seeing other men. I could see that you were secretly jealous, even though you never told me so. You’d call them my ‘adventures’, always with an expression that laid between a smirk and a pursed lip. You only gave me three rules:

To not tell you anything about it.

To not mention any part of your name when I’m with other men. 

And to not meet men on the weekends—the weekends are only for us.

I am still surprised that you tolerated it in the fifteen years we’re together. When I first told you about my needs, you told me you weren’t surprised, what with me being a typical son of a preacher man—you said that to me to the tune of the Dusty Springfield song. I rolled my eyes.

I found you hunched over, leaning by the taxi stand. I stood behind you. I laid my trembling fingers on your shoulder. And when you took my hand I was shocked by your gentleness. You looked at me, and I knew you were feeling my pain more than you felt yours.

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