It was raining outside. He loved rainstorms. How the house's walls were thin enough that we could hear the pitter-patter of the raindrops outside as we sat together by the fire. I can barely remember his voice. All that's left are bitter memories. It hurts.

It hurts, Andrew. It hurts and nobody understands.

I used to address him as "Hussie-kun," but it made him uncomfortable and he asked me to call him by his first name. It was embarrassing and difficult to get used to, but I managed.

With Andrew I was happy. With Andrew I was complete.

But dreams don't last forever, and mine was no exception.

Anytime we went out together, people were enamored of him the moment they lied eyes on him. His intoxicating lips constantly drew eyes. I was childish and withheld immense jealousy. I did not like the stares he got. I did not like his strange conversations he had with these people. I did not like the peculiar clothes they wore, or how they always giggled at us both and spoke of "quadrants" and other devilry.

My immature insecurities grew into a sort of hatred. I was paranoid beyond belief. Andrew often mentioned people that I did not know, and my foul mind always leapt to conclusions. This Nic Cage must be who he sees when he has " Thursday night astronaut class." That blonde hair I found on his shirt probably came from this Dave Strider he keeps mentioning. Who is Geromy? The whore that ogled him like he was a piece of meat when we were at that restaurant?

These thoughts were plaguing my mind. I thought I was keeping them hidden. To my utter dispair, Andrew noticed, and finally spoke to me about it one night.

"You seem different now. You aren't doodling as much anymore," he said.

I just shook my head and averted his intense gaze. Don't look at his lips, I told myself. Just don't look at his lips.

"I hope you don't mind, but I happened to see one of the few things you have doodled recently."

My heart stopped. I snuck a glance up. His face was pained. His large, full lips were shaped in a slight frown. "Oh-" I tried to say, but he spoke instead.

"Why did you draw this, Hima? Why?" He held up the one thing I never wanted him to see. It was a picture I had drawn to vent my anger. I had so much pent-up aggression toward all the attention Andrew was getting that I had no control over my hand. The image of Andrew holding that wretched drawing of him as a mochi will never leave my mind.

After I had no response to his question, Andrew had sighed, put the picture down, and said, "It's over, Hima. I'm sorry. I can't. I just can't."

The pounding of my breaking heart drowned out anything else he might have said. My tears fell on the picture lying by my feet, making the marker colours blur and bleed together.

These memories infest my every being. I've made progress on recovering through drawing. My fans are telling me they sense a hint of bitterness in my recent drawings. I'm glad no one has noticed the increase in lip size on my artwork of Romano. God forbid if Andrew ever noticed, but I doubt he even pays attention to my silly comic.

I'll never forget him. These memories, though they pain me so, are all I have left.

End