Guts.

A flashback.

In imagination, not memory.

A place like no other, a time like no other.

Oldies are goldies.

Him, like no other.

A voice like no other. Words like no other.

A conversation, like any other though.

About the world, the work, the sky, the stars, the waves, the evolvement of feelings, the awkwardness of coincidences.

And it ended.

How come?

How did it start in the first place? How come?

We still don’t know. Maybe it was the walk. Or my earrings. Or getting back to writing often?

We still wonder.

No.

I still wonder; he doesn’t.

We are perfectly fine.

No.

He is perfectly fine. I am not.

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