There are things
I need to write.

I have the feeling that I began to live at forty. Before that, I lived through so much. I worked, served in the military, became an entrepreneur. I made decisions, some too quickly. I got things right. I got things wrong. I carried on. For years, there was always something waiting for me. A responsibility. A person. A problem to solve. I was waiting for myself too, though I only understand that now. At forty, I began to ask questions there never seemed to be time for. What do I enjoy? What would I do if nobody expected anything from me? Which parts of myself did I leave for later? Photography found its way to that place. I catch myself noticing a shadow, the way someone rests their hands, a light that will soon disappear. And I want to stay. To experiment. To make something out of what I see. I still have responsibilities. There are still days when I lose myself in them. But now I recognise the desire for a life with room for me as well. Perhaps, until now, I was gathering experiences. Now I am beginning to understand what I want to do with them.

Something small happened today. The kind of thing only worth a smile if I could tell you. I picked up my phone. I still know where to find your name. I stayed like that for a moment, my thumb still, while the water boiled in the kitchen. Some absences arrive this way. In a spare cup of coffee. In a street we turn into out of habit. In the urge to say: “You won't believe what happened to me.” I put the phone down, its screen facing the table. I opened the window. Someone was laughing in the street. A car was struggling to start. My neighbour's washing moved slowly on the line. I stood and watched. Then I made the coffee, forgot the sugar and drank it by the window. The small thing is still untold. I write it here.

You unfastened my necklace with the care of someone opening an old letter. The clasp fell between your fingers. At the nape of my neck, the small chill of metal. Then your hand. The street carried on outside. A bus braked. Someone called for someone. My eyes were closed and your breathing was beside my ear. Now I fasten the necklace alone. Sometimes it takes a while. The clasp slips from my fingers. I lift my hair. Leave the back of my neck bare for one more moment.

I changed the sheets. Opened the windows. Took your glass to the kitchen. The room looked almost new. That night, the bed made the same sound when I lay down. I stretched my leg towards the side where you slept. The cotton was cold. There was a time when I rested my foot against yours and you held it between your ankles, still asleep. Today I lay still. In the morning, the sun came through the blind and warmed your half first.

You were still at the door and I had already put down my glass. You said my name. The house seemed to listen. There was a chair between us, a lamp lit, rain running down the glass. We talked about small things. I heard your voice and watched your mouth before I understood the words. When you sat beside me, our knees touched. Neither of us moved away. Your hand came later, slowly, as if confirming something it already knew. I left my palm open against yours. Outside, it was still raining. Inside me, waiting had changed its name.

You came closer to tell me something the music would not let me hear. I felt your breathing before the sentence. A shiver climbed my back. You rested two fingers on my arm. My body answered somewhere you had not touched. Around us, people kept talking. A woman was looking for her coat. Someone was filling a glass. I was there, but part of me was already leaning towards you. When you stepped back, the air fitted between us again. I still ran my hand along my arm, over the exact place your fingers had been. The warmth took its time leaving.

Today I have little strength to be interesting. I left the dishes on the counter. There is a jumper on the floor. The kitchen light is still on. If you come, sit close. I won't know how to tell you everything in the right order. Perhaps I'll begin at the end. Perhaps I'll go quiet halfway through. Rest your hand in my hair when I lose the words. I want to hear you breathe without having to ask whether you are still here. Later, when sleep loosens my fingers, turn off the light. Leave your hand where I can find it.

You kissed my shoulder before falling asleep. A gesture so small I almost let it pass. Today, in the shower, water fell on that place. I remembered the weight of your head, the sheet caught between our legs, the way you pulled me close without opening your eyes. I rested my forehead against the tiles. Let the water run. I miss hearing you laugh when I get a word wrong. Your hand looking for mine beneath the table. And that kiss on my shoulder. If you came back, perhaps I would begin there: your face beside my skin, your mouth at rest, a moment when neither of us needed to defend ourselves.

When you left, I kept the door ajar until the lift arrived. I heard you looking for your keys. Then the metal door. Then nothing. I went back to the bedroom. The pillow still held the shape of your head. I sat on the edge of the bed with the sentence I should have said caught behind my teeth. We had just been so close. I knew the place of your scar, the temperature of your hands, the sound you made falling asleep. And that night, none of those paths led me to you. In the morning, I closed the door. Still slowly, so it would make no sound.

I spent so long trying to forget you that I almost stopped noticing what still called to me. Today someone looked at me and I held their gaze. That was all. A café table. Sunlight on my hands. A question I answered more slowly than I needed to. Then, in the street, I wanted to unbutton my coat. The air touched my chest. I walked without looking for somewhere to arrive. There are still nights when I search for you in the dark. But this morning there was warmth in my body that did not come from your memory. I stayed in the sun a while. Let it stay.