We are walking in the park on a quiet evening in mid September. My hands are still not used to the way yours feel in mine so I’m short of breath and red faced. I blame it on the exercise. You laugh and say that we should start jogging and I look at you with so much disdain that your cheeks colour. 

The evening settles on my shoulders and you take your jacket and wrap it around me. 

I level a sceptical glance in your direction and dryly say: “this isn’t a romantic comedy, I’m not cold you absolute tool.”

You shrug, rub your arms and murmur: “just in case.”

For the fifth time that day I think about how you are too good for me, and selfishly hope that this is something you never come to realise. 

“Hey,” I say quietly, scuffing the toe of my shoe in the dirt, “what would you do if I died?” 

I’m not looking at you but I can see the sharp twist of your head in my periphery. You stumble and it takes a moment for you to regain yourself. I don’t comment. 

“Why would you ask that?” You say sharply, your long ambling stroll has slowed. 

I shrug and keep walking, “just curious, I guess.”

“Hey, wait.” You tuck your hand under my elbow and turn me swiftly to face you, cupping my arms inwards. You peer at me through your hair and brush a hand over your eyes.

“If you died, I’d forget how to do the simplest things. Like how to count, or ride a bike or make toast.” 

You pull me closer to drop your chin onto my head and I can barely hear you now. 

“If you died, I could watch the sunset a thousand times and still not be able to tell you what the colour red looks like.”