Writing

The Walk Home

I still miss you.

Of course, I knew I was going to miss you. It’s not like I haven’t been missing you every minute of every day that we’re not together. To tell you the truth, from the moment we part ways and I see you disappear around the corner, I already miss you a little bit. Or maybe not just a little bit. Actually, it’s when I miss you the most— when I can still feel a little bit of your warmth, slowly fading away, to be replaced by the cold air of the night that is my only companion when I’m walking back to my house.

And upon returning, I sit on my bed and recall the events of the evening. It is both a curse and a blessing to have such good memory— that every expression on your face is imprinted on to my thoughts, every word you say, every topic that we debate on over and over and end up laughing about, every embarrassing detail that we accidentally share to each other, only to find the other more endearing… I store the moments in my memory with a smile, and the thought that I had just once again been part of something magical, and I wonder, how I got to be so lucky, to be one of the people in the world to know such happiness.

I have long since stopped denying that I am in love with you. I will probably say a bunch of things to distract you if you ask it, but I know that you know, as well as anyone who has ever seen me with you, or has heard me talk about you, that this is how I feel. That although we fight and we fight, and we fight and we fight, and you say that you never want to see me again, and I say that I never want to see you again, after a few days, weeks, or months, we will suddenly find ourselves back on that corner, promising each other the world, and soon, and forever.

And then, again you will disappear, and again, I will miss you, but more than I have ever missed you before. And I will wonder just how much a person can miss another, that every time you’re gone, my feelings only increase. So much so that I want nothing else than to hear my heart beating in time with yours. That I think of nothing else except that perhaps, I will never get used to the cold, no matter how many times I walk myself home.

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