You told me the love story of how your mother and father met. They were young. They loved and left. Three years later they found each other again, somehow, by chance. Love returned. I loved this story. I guess, I thought, if I waited long enough you would come back to me too. We would have that epic love story that was always on the precipice, on the tips of our tongues, in the way you would look at me, in the way I would look at you. But the years passed, in seasons, in ups and downs, as life always does, and we did cross paths, lives, even bodies; I let you into my home, my bed. But you were a visitor and you never quite returned to me. You were older now, ambitious, but still the same to me. I was older now too, you said, all grown up, 25. It’s funny. But in my mind I was still 22, right there where you left, like a child I stood, just waiting for you to come back home.