Chapter 2
Dear Nazareth,
I've started doing this thing where I don't think about you.
It works for about ten minutes at a time.
Paris helps.
Paris is loud in a way that requires your full attention—the horns, the French I only half understand, the way everyone moves like they're perpetually late for something more important than wherever you're going.
I walk. I drink coffee at the wrong hours. I let Ian talk me into things I'd normally decline, like the wine bar on Tuesday which started out fun, then turned into a pathetic meltdown of how much I miss you.
Missing you is stupid.
I know it's stupid.
You’re not… we're not… there isn't even a word for what we are, and yet my body has apparently decided not to wait for a definition before it starts aching.
My chest does this thing in the evenings. This pressure, right in the center, like something's been sitting on it all day and I only notice when I stop.
I just want you to come back.
God, I hate that I just wrote that. I want to cross it out. I'm leaving it.