...and On the Ships at Sea.

Oh, okay. I'll talk.
So, there I was, half-naked, sitting in a pool of- wait not that story? Oh, the other one. Yikes! Really? That one? Alright...

He had just finished telling me about his book he was writing. He was cute, but I was only half-interested. His name was... Thomas, I think. Yeah, Thomas. Don't ask for a last name because you're not going to get it. It's not secrecy, I just don't remember.

Now, it was only by luck that I heard him stop talking. I hadn't quite mastered the skill of dissociating secretly yet, but I was able to reply like I had heard everything he said. It was only after he had finished telling me about his book that he got interesting. Yes, he was cute, like I said, and he was tall, and he had a nice beard. But that's really all fluff. Important fluff, but fluff nonetheless. What set him apart, and he was set apart despite what you're thinking about me forgetting his name. I just do that. I don't even remember your name right now. What was it? I'm not going to remember that.

Anyway, what set Thomas apart from the other four guys I was seeing at the time is that he asked me if I was okay. None of the other guys did that. They'd ask me about my day or what I want on my pancakes but never how I was. I was not well, not at the time. He later told me he could see that. It was something in my eyes, he said. And when he asked me, in that moment, at that little café a block from his apartment, I began to cry. The crying isn't the important part. I used to cry all the time, still do. But I was as secretive about the crying as I was about the sadness buried in my chest. I did my crying in closets, in bathroom stalls, in empty elevators, not in front of people, especially not in front of as cute a person as Thomas.

Thomas reacted like most people would if the guy you're on a fourth date with starts crying in front of you. He dropped thirty dollars onto the table and brought me to his apartment. It was the second time I had been to his apartment, and the first time during the day. I remember it well. It was very cute apartment and very much like him. A studio, but sizable, and plants all over. He sat me down on the couch and put on some music while he made some hot chocolate in the kitchen. When he sat down and gave me a mug, he told me something so sweet I nearly melted. I don't remember what he said exactly, and I won't try to piece together some words to resemble what he said either. I can't match it. He must have been thinking about what to say to me while he was in the kitchen. He was like that.

Then, he asked me again how I was, and I told him. I told him everything. I told him about all the bad stuff I had been doing to myself, about the three-day long sleeping sessions I had been having twice a week, and about the other four guys I has been seeing. I almost didn't mention the other guys, but I thought that if I was going to be anything with this man, I was going to be honest. He was quiet while I spoke, nodding with a look of concern and empathy. He was so cute. When I had finished, he took me in an embrace. He told me that he understood, that it was all alright. He didn't care about the other guys and he just wanted to make sure that I was okay. I kissed him on the cheek and told that I was thankful, and that he didn't know how much I appreciated this. He then told me to stay at his place for just a couple of hours, relax, look at the plants, check out his records. He wanted to write me something, and he did. He sat down at his desk in the corner of the apartment and wrote for three hours.

During that time, I got to know his apartment: his fridge, his record collection, his plant collection, even his underwear drawer, along with the rest of his dresser. He had a lot of nice clothes, but he was so much bigger than me that I didn't even bother to ask to borrow any. I ate three cups of yogourt. I named four of his plants, with name tags and everything. I discovered that I wasn't the only person on that side of the city to still listen to 90s emo.

It was late afternoon when he finished writing. The sunlight streaked orange through his windows, and lit his brown eyes gold. I love brown eyes. They are so warm, aren't they? He gave me a notebook, college ruled and about 80 pages thick, filled with the story he just wrote. He said it was a story for me. I took that to mean that no one else could read it, and no one else has. He also gave me one of the plants I named. I still have it, in that corner over there. Winston. I have the story, too, but I won't tell you where that is. I left his apartment with the plant, the notebook, and a kiss on the lips. I read it as soon as I got home, and cried for an hour after. I called him during that time. I didn't say anything when he answered his phone, but he heard me crying and knew I had read it. This I remember. He said, "So, you read it," in that husky voice of his.

I only saw him again a couple of times after that. He went on an exchange programme with the university for two years in... Japan? Germany? I can't remember. He lives there now, wherever he went. I don't miss him, and I really hope he doesn't miss me. There are a lot of people whom I miss, but those people were supposed to be permanent in my life. He was not permanent to me, nor was I to him. Transience is not something to fear. We understood that. We knew our relationship was only fleeting, and that it was going to end. That doesn't make it any less special. Yes, I do still have that book. I think I'm going to read it again later. And I do hope he's okay, wherever he is.