I think all of us need that kind of light in our lives, like the kind oozing out of your eyes when you talk of opening a café in the mountains, or the kind that stretches to your lips when you cuddle your Labrador, or the kind that I see in your fingers while they play the keys. I think we need that kind of light, not too bright, just the right.

I can’t forget how your voice cracks up every time you try to match the falsetto of some Spanish artist, and how you always cover it up with a cough thinking I didn’t notice, always changing the topic when someone touches on your fear of getting attached, or how you always, always sleep with the light on.

On days when you’re away, I like to think we’re together, sipping the raindrops mixed in our chai, making Boomerang videos of the smoke out of the paper cups. I like to think we’re holding hands, when yours is slightly warmer than all the hands I’ve ever held, and how we don’t need an umbrella in the rain anymore. On days when you’re away, I like to think we’re happy.

It’s two and a half hours past midnight, we’re both awake in our homes, only one of us being written about. Assignments keep you awake, and I’ve given up on trying to sleep. I need to wake up in less than five hours but sleep seems distant and all I have for company is a John Denver song I wish I’d never heard, it makes me a little sad, you know.

You tell me I should sleep, I tell you it’s okay not to. Between the exclamation marks that I’ll never learn to use appropriately and the laugh in your voice notes, I think I feel a little of what they call love. But I see the mountains in your eyes, and I won’t lie, they seem too far from here.

It’s a long way up there, I think I’ll just let it go. Until then, we can pretend to be lovers tonight and wake up in the morning not remembering a thing.

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