I drove past your parents’ place the other day. Over the canal, towards the reservoirs, past the fields you’d take photos of from the window. And it made me think (it always makes me think) of all the times I’d pretend you were nowhere nearby. There was no chance, we wouldn’t catch a glance, wouldn’t see each other in the street, or across the gym. There would never be a reason for us to say “hello” again.
And I didn’t know if it made me feel better. I didn’t know if I was happier missing out on these chunks – Winter’s come around and I wonder, did you wear that Christmas jumper again this year? Did you travel over the border again? Did you kiss someone new again? Was she a redhead again?
It’s funny how it goes – you had every inch of me, and now we’re less than strangers. At least strangers say “hello.”
