I’ll probably move out sometime in the next couple of weeks. And you’ll probably not be satisfied with how things ended or maybe you’ll ask me for a better answer. But I won’t have one, and I can’t tell you all the reasons that force me to leave when there’s just one to stay, staring right into my eyes. You, yes you.
Every little thing in this room reminds me of you. The amateur sketch of Guevara you made when you were fourteen, your mouth organ in the corner of the bed I don’t sleep on anymore, your pictures from the Polaroid that are beginning to fade, they’re from nights when you smoked up on the terrace and no one could drag you home, I guess you saw too many stars that night, I guess you wanted to count all of them.
When I leave, I want your keychain. The one that looks like a skull, it embarrasses me so much every time you take it out of your pocket, but I want it. I want you to get rid of things I don’t like, one chain at a time. 
I want you to get rid of habits, like filter coffee on weekdays and orange juice on Sundays. On Saturdays, we order in, anything we like. I want you to remember to switch off the bathroom light every time you’re done using it. I want you to remember to pay your bills, and dispose your garbage bags. I want you to remember not to carry trash, along and within.
But most of all, I want you to remember I’m gone. I don’t want you to wake up at four in the morning, huffing for breath, holding out to me, because you can’t find your calm. I don’t want you to not be prepared for hailstorms, even when it’s not monsoon.
But if you don’t find where I kept the sugar, you can still call me. You and me, between us, things won’t change much. Fill the water bottles, hold your pillow tight, and have a good night’s sleep.
And when I’m gone, I hope you’ll still follow me on Instagram, and I’ll still follow you back.