You met Gerard when you were both kids, just two scrappy little souls trying to make sense of a world too big for your hands.

He was the funny kid, the one who always kept his hoodie or jersey on even in the summer, scuffed sneakers dragging as he walked home from school. You were his total opposite quiet but opinionated, always carrying a camera in your pocket like it was your shield. While the other girls wore dresses and talked about crushes, you were racing boys on the playground and blasting hip hop on your old CD player.

“Wanna play?” you’d asked him one afternoon, tossing him a ball.

He caught it like he hadn’t touched joy in a while.

From then on, it was you and him.

Childhood turned into teenage years, and with it came to him driving you home, blasting music, and talks about the future his full of silence, yours full of big dreams. You had grown out of the tomboyish persona, Gerard had stayed the same old rugby lad.

He had “Park Life” by blur playing on repeat. You still carried a soft spot for the Spice Girls, and even though he’d never admit it, you caught him humming the lyrics sometimes when he thought you weren’t listening.

You started noticing things. Like the way his voice dipped when he said your name, how he’d glance over at you like he was scared to blink and miss something. But neither of you said it. Not back then.

Still, every time he smiled at you really smiled your chest would tighten in a way you didn’t understand yet.

He made your heart sing

“Hurry up sweetheart!” Gibsie yelled at the end of your drive as you rushed to him.