… I saw you there in between the music, and the people, and the nonsense. Remember what was playing? I don’t. I don’t even know whose house party it was, or what universe we were in, or what purse I had dangling pathetically from my index finger – all I could think of was this: I think about you more than you’ll ever know.

Isn’t it ridiculous? That a portion of my mind has been occupied by you? It wasn’t by choice, either – it was as if you’d decided to step inside and claim it as yours. And for what purpose? When life ends, you and I – our brains or whatever, they’ll cease to exist. Is love merely meant to be wasted, or is it meant to be spent like there’s no tomorrow?

I haven’t written to you in a long time now. I wonder what you do with your letters. How do you open your envelopes? Do you tear them from the sides, or tear them from their tops? Do you even open them? I still have your letters. I keep them in various places, and sometimes I see people trying to read them. But I don’t care what they do, really.

I’ve learnt a lot these past four months. I’ve learnt that life isn’t tragic. I’ve learnt that things are temporary. I’ve learnt that hummingbirds fly backwards. I watched my friend cry the other day. She cried while she was eating. She was holding an apple and she was crying. But then she laughed. And then she cried again. And then she laughed. She wiped her eyes, and she stood up and walked to the bathroom.

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Book I’m reading: Men Without Women