I sit here with a lump in my throat. My eyes have that constant dewiness of almost tears. Of past tears. Of recent tears. Of soon-t0-be tears. Today feels like too much. I have to move. I have to finish a presentation. But right now I’m waiting. Waiting for the move. Waiting for the presentation.

I worry. Worry that the movers won’t appreciate that I packed things in various bins and bags instead of standard brown boxes. Worry that this presentation will go all wrong.

This always makes me miss him. This worry. Though there were many things we struggled with, one of the things we were greatest at was situations like this. I would call or text him stressed out for whatever reason, and he would say just the right things.

And so, this turns my stress to sadness. I remember that this time we were supposed to move in together. That had been our plan so many times ago. We were supposed to start coming home to each other every day. And that image fills me with warmth. Puts a smile on my face. And then the light in my eyes dims out. The cloud of reality hits. And I remember this image is no more. There is no our place. There is no our bedroom. There is no our wall with the clock we bought together in Pittsburgh a year ago. There are only his place and my place. His with his roommates and mine with my new one. The clock hangs over his bed and I sometimes wonder how it doesn’t make his room heavy with sadness for the things that might have been.

I try to remind myself that that image is an ideal that never was. That the idea of coming home to each other felt complicated and confusing to us. And I wonder why that was our reality then.

I want to ask him. To send him a text.

But then I remember, this is about me and my move and not about a future with him that never was.


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