It’s an eleven-minute walk.

I shop at the same supermarket just in case you’re there. I take the longer route to the station, hoping you might be walking down the street. You live so close, but I don’t know which apartment. Not that I’d ever camp out or wish to act like a stalker, but I am hoping to pass by your window so you’ll see me and feel a flicker of regret.

You ended it over text at 11 a.m. I couldn’t even cry, there was work to be done. Took an entire night for you to reply to the message I sent at 7 p.m. the day before, and you were already off work by then. I cried into my pillow, soaked with everything but your cologne.

Was it karma on display? I didn’t kiss your rival when the chance bloomed from the rose. Asked about my vision board, and I replied with there was you. The grapes I bit turned into wine, but the taste was bitter rather sweet.

You should have seen how my friends spoke about me, even when you weren’t around. They noticed the glow in my eyes, the way I lit up when my screen flashed your name. They said they wished they had someone to love them so deeply, someone who could reflect an entire universe in their gaze.

I felt so stupid after buying your damned book, because even when we weren’t speaking, I clung to what I could have of you. I didn’t care about the words, the artwork, or how you spelled ‘love’ with a ‘u’ and no ‘e’ just like you always chose yourself over me.

Bought the kissing bell from Flying Tiger as well. It’s decorating my desk, untouched. Do you remember how I kept ringing it?

If you weren’t yourself, then why did you hold my hand? Why did you kiss me goodnight? Why didn’t you let go when I was saying goodbye?

I roll my eyes at couples at the Metro, arguing in thoughtless prepositions. I allowed every conversation to fade, as none of them were ever close to how our eleven o’clock conversations were for thirty days.

Celebrated your birthday, yet received no invite. You got so drunk that night that forgot about the intelectual date we had planned.

I, different from your actions, went home after drinking with my friends. Yet you kept the party going until 8 a.m., to then proceed to text me just an hour before that you couldn’t make it. I really wanted to see Velázquez, disappointment doesn’t even define the rage I had within.

We could have been each other’s strength, me pushing you to grow, while you were giving me peace. You hated how exhausted I was, and it wasn’t even my fault. I made time for you even as the grains of sand slipped through my hands, carrying away my focus, my knowledge, and all the potential I hadn’t yet unlocked. And while you worked eleven-hour shifts to earn half of what I made in four, something inside you quietly disappeared.

Everyone says you were the worst for me, but somehow I still feel like I’m the one who owes you an apology—like replying in zero seconds was too much, too eager, too exposed. I wonder how that made you feel. I wonder if you wondered how did I feel.