On our last day together she brought me a bou­quet of tulips and car­na­tions, and a Joe Hisaishi CD — a child­hood mem­ory of mine she ordered from Japan. I had men­tioned it in pass­ing on one of our walks as the only album I’ve been unable to find for down­load or pur­chase, and there it was, in my hands.

We watched Before Sunrise, and after­ward, we laid next to each other on the couch, silent, unsure of what to say, because there was no com­fort to be had. Soon, I was kiss­ing the tears from her face, over and over again.

She asked what she was going to do with­out me. How long it was going to be before we saw each other again. Whether a sim­ple phone call was allowed. I could say noth­ing, because I under­stood the neces­sity of it all.

So she said she was being reduced to an observer, and I grew cold and dis­tant. It was the first time I had con­sid­ered my own feel­ings, when I had felt reduced to much more than that, and she wasn’t mak­ing it any eas­ier. With her lips on my neck and her hand through my hair, she com­forted me in turn, and our pas­sion took hold of us one last time.

Before she left, I hugged her, felt her tears grow cold on my shoul­der, and kissed her once more on the cheek. Thank you, she said.

My heart has been filled with a calm sad­ness ever since. A strug­gle between the pain of being away from her, and know­ing that it’s for the best. That we would be stronger, and more sta­ble when it was all over.

In the days since, I’ve remem­bered the things I wanted to say to her before she left my back porch, run­ning to car with­out look­ing back before the emo­tion could over­whelm her. Things that didn’t come to my head because I was too focused on keep­ing myself together.

Don’t stop cre­at­ing. Take care of your­self. I love you.