We were walking down the street.

This was when all of the meaningful conversation took place. When I didn’t have to look him in the eye. Something inside of me made me nervious to look at him too long, as though he might see something ugly inside me if we held eye contact for too long.

I could tell that he wanted to hold my hand, because the back of his kept sweeping against the back of mine. But he didn’t. He was holding himself at a distance from me.

He was always distancing himself from me.

It wasn’t a good part of the city. Broken windows. Noises which we both tried not to notice, or worse, recognize.

When he stopped short, I walked right into him. About to say something I’d probably regret later, I realized that he was staring strangely at something written on the wall in blue paint.

don’t ever be afraid to live

We both stood there for a second, both thinking, “Yeah, that’s pretty much it, isn’t it?” And then we continued on, the same as before, except he was holding my hand.