When people speak of Bryce Harrison, they'll tell you of the renowned baseball career that he led. They'll tell you that he was a shoe-in for a Division One scholarship, the MLB even.

They'll tell you that he succeeded academically. That he took advanced placement classes and that he maintained a well-rounded GPA alongside his baseball accolades.

People can tell you the superficial things about Bryce Harrison.

But they don't know that he enjoyed singing Karaoke to the movie Hairspray while only in his boxers.

They don't know that he enjoyed late night snuggles, whether it be with his best friend or his dog. He had no preference as to who it was with, just that his needs were fulfilled.

They don't know that he was a people-pleaser. That he'd do anything to see a smile on your face, even it was 3 AM and he'd hand-deliver you flowers to replace the ones he'd just given you the night before.

They don't know that he detested mint chocolate chip ice cream, but he didn't mind kissing me after I'd eaten it anyways. Although he'd complain about the taste immediately afterwards.

They don't know that he was terrified of brain surgery. That not being able to speak properly afterwards and having to wear glasses highly upset him, made him feel weak. That he was more afraid of the unknown than he was of imminent death.

And they don't know that every breath I continue to breathe without his presence slowly breaks me, until I'm afraid that there won't be anything left but a shell of the girl who was worthy of being loved by someone like Bryce Harrison.

They don't know that the phone call informing me of his passing sent me crashing to my knees, sobs wracking my body as I realized that the moment had come. That the boy that I loved was gone.

They don't know that I raced over to his house, none other than Clayton Johnson holding me in his arms as I begged for the news not to be true.

They don't know that I witnessed Clayton Johnson cry that day.

They don't know that I've tried calling Steven Anderson exactly 37 times. 36 times my call was denied, and on the 37th call all I heard was a muttered apology. The sound of a broken boy who'd lost his place in the world, a world wreaked by cancer. And so I'd promised to forgive him, which had only caused him to hang up.

They don't know that I've spent the last week scouring the city, visiting every Farmer's Market and floral shop in search of a flower that Bryce hadn't given to me before in preparation for the funeral today. And that I'd failed in doing so.

They don't know that as I stand here at his gravesite, my knees shaking as the pastor reads off his pre-rehearsed speech, I'm not sure that I'll walk away from here in one piece.

Because I'm hopelessly and irrevocably in love with Bryce Harrison.

And this was our story.