It had been weeks since you talked to me, and I swear I was going insane. I came home from the university to be around people I knew would still love me in the morning. I was torn between wanting to ask you where we went wrong, or giving up and moving on and forgetting you. I had never felt the feelings you made me feel. You made me feel like I was on drugs, and I couldn't get enough. Where were you? You told me you loved me, and now where are you?

Softly opening my door she asked me, “How do you know when it’s love?”

Trying not to cry, I thought of you before I answered. How I knew that what we had was love. I thought about the times you curled up in my bed after a long day of work. I would scratch your back tracing the masterpiece you were. People always say you can't touch art, but I couldn't keep my hands off you. I thought back to when we explored any building that was open in the city. How I dragged you in and out of every place I wanted to go in. Taking your picture against graffiti, and admiring the work of art you were. That I didn't have to ask to know I could always try whatever you were eating. Mostly I thought about how you knew me better than I knew myself. I thought about how I talked about you to people. Anything that we did I rushed to tell my mother, always wondering if you talked the same about me.

“I guess what I know about love is it’s there when you least expect it. They will remember details about you, that you never told them and they just observed. They will pick up on the way you are as a person. How you drink your coffee or how long it takes you to get ready. You just grow together, and you say and think alike because you’re together all the time. When you’re apart you’re not worrying. You have trust and at the end of the day, you know it’s you.”

That’s when my words fumbled over themselves slightly, and I continued.

“I don't think he knew that I loved him deeply. I always will, no matter where he is now. When I held his hand it was because he made me feel safe. The type of safe you feel in your mother's arms. When I kissed him on the cheek it was because I hoped he’d wake in the morning and do the same to me. When I leaned my head on his shoulder it was because I knew he’d always carry my weight. When I stole sips of his coffee, it was because I knew I didn’t have to ask. Even if he were to say no, he would still let me try it. When I scratched his back when I woke up, it was because that’s how my mother showed me love. When I had him sleepover many nights it was because in the darkness of the night, my light was right next to me. So you see, I did love him.”

“Well, do you still?” She said, trying not to make me cry.

Without hesitation, “I will always love him. I will always, always, let that light back into my life, because without him a part of me is dark. I hope he comes back to me, I really do.”

“And if he doesn't?”

With tears falling down my face, “Then- then, I'll just search for him, everywhere I go. Try to find the parts of him that made me feel light. I will try to find the person I was with him. My heart hasn't been the same, I haven't been the same.”