We stood up from the table—it was time to part ways again. I had to get back home. I still had trouble getting permissions, and I didn't know how long this would last. I got out of the car somewhere far from home and walked quickly through the cold air. My breath stung in my throat. After I got out, you drove off. About an hour later, I got a message: "I'm home." I just replied, "Okay." I knew I had no strength left for you.
Some more time passed, and somehow we started patching things up again. We laughed like nothing had happened, as if that terrible day had never existed. We became two carefree people spending time together—well, at least you were. I still held expectations. Every time you laughed, I would think to myself, Please don't laugh like that. I can't help it—I still love you. I'd die for your smile. You're such a beautiful man.
I knew I would never forget you. I was on the wrong path again—back in your arms.
Time passed. We got through the winter. Then one spring day, you told me you were leaving for a job in a distant city. I couldn't say anything. Take me with you, I thought. But how could I go? It was such a remote place, and you never invited me. The goodbye was approaching. So many memories and gifts had piled up.
One day, while we were out together, after paying for our food at a café, you gave me a small amount of change and wrote the date on it—day, month, year (2008)—and signed your name. Do you remember that, Chris? It's 2025 now, and I still have that coin in my wallet.
Is it obsession? I don't think so. Why would keeping your memory be obsession?
Yes, I've had other relationships. Fake smiles, meaningless kisses—I can't lie and say there was nothing else in my life. I even went through marriage, something very serious, though it ended in disappointment. But I valued you more than anyone else. I still do.
And the saddest part?
You never even knew, my love, Chris.