I've never written and published something in English before, and I have no idea if it's even legible.

I hadn't done that on purpose.

Or at least I was trying to convince myself that I didn't.

After my freshmen year on university, I've got a chance to transfer to Columbia. I was thinking about studying there in the first place, but I didn't think it would be a wise choice. I'm still not sure about that, actually. I'm completely aware that it will open old wounds, and I have no certainty how will you react. We've seen each other only once since that summer. It was when you told me you were getting married. "I might be getting married next year," you said. That sentence got stuck into my head, almost as it was a song lyric. For the past few months I couldn't stop thinking about how I react about that news, and how angry I was at myself because I had done nothing to stop that.

I should have said no. I do not agree to that. I want you to marry me, not whoever you engaged with. And I am sure that is what you want too.

I know it would probably change nothing, but I wasn't able to forget that day. I just needed to know what you would do if I was brave enough to say how I felt. I imagined so many possible reactions, that it was almost like transcribing music. I considered dozens of options, but I couldn't find the right one. How would you react, Oliver? Would you stay with me? Or would you laugh at me and say that you never treated me seriously? Maybe I would just feel better knowing you don't like me anymore.

Or maybe it would kill me.

But here I am, looking at you. I have no idea what your talk is about; I don't care. I just enjoy listening to you. It reminds me of our long conversations about the philosophy, music, poems – the passion in your voice was exactly the same back then. I worship that memory of you.

I didn't think that you would check the attendance register. I wanted to stay anonymous until the end of the lecture. That's why I sat in the back. I didn't want to get you distracted.

Then there was a moment of silence. I would have no idea if it was noticeable for anyone, but I knew. I knew that you read my name and started to connecting the dots.

"Elio," you said, looking into my eyes. I nodded and repeated my name, and you were the only one who understands what that mean.

They couldn't know that I called you by my name.

An hour later, at the end of the lecture, I still had no idea what it was about. My thoughts were in Italy, remembering that summer. Monet's Berm, Rome. The sun, water, beach, my room, your room. I was hoping that every time you looked at me (and you did it quite often) you thought about it too.

I hope your memories are as alive as mine's.

You didn't have to tell me to stay; unlike you, I did it without a word. Within five minutes class was empty and we were alone. And yes, I perfectly remember our last time alone.

"Elio," you said my name again. I am standing right next to you and you are paying your whole attention to me, and it was all I was asking for last two years.

"Elio," I repeated. I knew you weren't going to say your name, my name, but a little part of me was counting on that. It didn't happen, though.

"I am not playing that game with you." I thought you might be angry at me, but it was harsh. I can't stand madness in your voice. "What are you doing here?"

"Considering I was here to hear your lecture, I guess I came to learn."

I didn't want to be rude. I just want you to talk with me.

I am looking at you and all I can see it's the man I fell for. You haven't changed a bit. Well, you are older now, but I don't mind this. You are still the most beautiful human being I have ever seen. Even if you're so angry at me now.

"I don't want you in my class."

It was cruel but not worse than I expected.

"Why?"

"Because I won't be able to look at you every single day and think about what have I lost."

That was worse.

You let me hug you, so I did. I wasn't sure if that was what I wanted, but it was definitely close to that. Smelling your scent was the best thing that happened to me for two years. I knew you didn't want me to do anything more, so I didn't.

"I am here," I said, and I by that I mean everything you want it to mean. I am here if you want to talk, to hug, to escape. "I am here for you."

"I'm married, Elio," you whispered, and somehow it sounds like it was the worst thing that happened in your life. "Do you see that ring on my finger?"

"Take it off," I said without any doubt. I didn't care about it. It means nothing. "Take it off and go with me."

Remember, not so long time ago, we both heard a story and we had to decide. Is it better to speak, or to die?

Back then, we both chose to speak.

Later, you died. Your death made me die too.

Now we got a chance to speak again.

"I want you to meet my wife," you said. I wasn't prepared for that, not even sure if I want to do it. For last two years I was pretending she doesn't exist, and you are still waiting for me.

I take a step back and shake my head.

"I don't want to meet your wife."

I prefer to think she means nothing to you, and you don't care about her. You broke my heart once, and I don't want you to do that again.

You take my hand and squeeze it.

"Oliver," you said, making me fully concentrated on what you're going to say next. "I want to introduce you to my wife and tell her all about you. That I never stopped thinking about you since then. And to tell her that I am sorry, because I tricked her badly."

"And what do you mean by that?"

In that moment, you are choosing to speak.