Do you remember the first time we met?

I look at your shoes, new Converse, they’re black, just the way I like them.

You sigh and deposit that cigarette in your mouth.

I look at you and you rise,

‘Sorry, you don’t want to catch Cancer, certainly not by second-hand smoke.’

I look at my fingers. It’s something I find myself doing of late.

I look at them and imagine myself holding a pen, how firm that is.

I imagine myself slowly tearing a chapati, my favorite thing to eat and smile.

Love, I’m talking to you, are you listening?

I nod and you smile, ‘you are thinking, you have traveled to one of your worlds and left me to my cigarette, but that’s alright, now that you’re here I just remembered you asking me what my story was.’

Yes, everyone we meet has a story and I wanted to know your story.

I lied to you.

I know.

Wait, if you know I lied, why didn’t you call me out on it?

I asked you what your story was and you told me what you wished it wasn’t and with time everything you did proved that you were running away from the truth within you- it was and still is your journey to make, and didn’t you lose me along the way too?

Yeah, what if I told you that losing you was the best thing that ever happened to me?

I shrug and attempt a smile,but my tears travel faster than my lips, so they grace my cheeks before my lips show up. How come? I ask.

You take one long drag and put out your cigarette before looking back at me, and in that gentle voice you say, ‘Well, the version of me that wanted you at that time was not worthy of you, he wasn’t even worthy of me, and losing you…Love, losing you hurt like my guys thought I was foolish, they gave me hell, but deep down I was glad you walked away because if you’d have stayed hoping that I was gong to get better, I would have broken you and that would have killed me.’