Page 45 of Code Word
Right?
When Luke would take my hand in public, or how he’d put his arm around me on stage. The fans would go crazy, and Luke would lean into me more and laugh.
There was a photo of that. God, I remembered that night. Wembley Stadium, London. It was just before the last song of the concert. Our hair was drenched, our shirts clinging to us with sweat, and Luke’s arm was around me. He was laughing.
We looked so young.
We looked so happy.
My god, his smile. His smile in that photo as he leaned into me, his arm around my waist, my arm around his shoulder.
His hair was blonder then.
His smile was brighter too.
He hadn’t smiled like that in a long time. Not at me. Not at all.
He’d been so unhappy these last two years, and I’d been oblivious.
Fucking hell.
God, I’d been so blind.
Luke . . .
Fuck, I missed him.
I wanted to see his smile, see that dimple.
Hear him laugh.
I wanted to hold him, to make sure he was okay.
And I’d never let him go.
My heart hurt so fucking bad—like heartache was an actual physical pain—and I couldn’t stop the stupid tears from falling. And when I wiped my cheek with the back of my hand, I noticed some writing on the back of the photo.
Wembley, London.Beacon tour.
It was Luke’s handwriting.
So I turned over another photograph, and there was more writing.
Luke had written on every photo, as if he’d recorded these memories of me and him.
No fan had sent these. He’d collected them. He’d even requested the studio shots, from what I could tell.
I found myself sitting on the floor, rifling through the photographs, the newspaper clippings, the articles.
Bluke on show for all to see
If Bluke isn’t real, what is this?
Bluke in Rio
Blake and Luke; love in plain sight
Bluke
