I wanted to ask you when you sat across from me, eating pizza and bread. You always paid the bill, splitting never a question raised. But all I did was thank you for dinner as we made our way home for post carb cuddles.

Those times in bed, my head cradled in the dip between your clavicle and chin. I called it my favorite spot, and I’d spend whole weekends there as you scrolled through stories online. I should have asked then – the blinds were down, so not even the noon sun could come blazing in.  It was just us and our unspoken thing, silent in the privacy of your little studio, so cozy and gray.

Then came time for you to leave that apartment across from mine. It was the closest I ever came to asking. You were packing your things, scrawling labels onto boxes. Kitchen. Keep. Misc. Discard. Your handwriting was messy, illegible on the cardboard, but I wondered if you’d label me too.


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