The memory is hazy, a lingering fog surrounds it, but portions are much sharper. The frst thing that was devoured by the fog was the sound of your laugh. I loved making you laugh—it would feed into my empty vessel, and recharge my famished soul—the way the streetlights drink the moths. As long as your laugh still echoed, I was alive.

Were we in the Village or Chelsea? It doesn’t really matter.

We spent the day pacing the river. I liked to meticulously plan our route, but you kept making detours; this would usually make me anxious, but I had you in my arms—a sedative. Every time I called you an idiot you laughed and threw your head on my chest—I could do nothing but embrace you and absorb whatever life I could.

East River, or the Hudson?

You took care of me when I was sick, you made sure I was always hydrated, you avoided downhill roads because you knew I had a bad knee. Even when we were watching that horrible play, I could see you from the edge of my eyes glancing to make sure I was enjoying my time. You made promises. A lot of them. You laced every one of them with the words Always and Forever. I believed you, clung to every promise like a lifeline.

You rose up from the table before I did. Did the breakup scar you too, or was it easy to simply get up and keep walking. I still had to walk you home, carrying around my shattered heart in a greasy brown takeaway bag with the leftover noodles.

Or was it a rice bowl? The fog thickens.

Your apartment was only a few blocks over, yet felt like the last mile in a marathon. I knew it was the last time we would walk together, the soles of our feet shattered after thousands of miles. Your laugh never surfaced once; life was seeping out of me. My soul once a vibrant pond, an ecosystem sustained by your laugh, now drained and barren. My brain spasmed in my skull—there had to be a spell, a collection of syllables, a set of letters strung together, that could make you change your mind, or at least laugh one last time.

Sixteenth Street, or were we drifting north on Ninth Avenue?

You were drunk, again. the pocket flask filled with vodka lay closer to your heart than I have ever managed. You once confessed to me that you were worried I’d find you unlovable sober, that the raw version of you was “too much.” I resent you for not giving me the chance to prove you wrong.

Were your fingers still threaded through mine, or was I already gripping air?

I guided you slowly through intersections and pedestrians, my hands lightly moving you around with precision.
I wanted to call you an idiot.
I wanted you to fall to my chest.
I wanted to embrace you.
I wanted to remind you of the promises you made.

Was the intersection finally clear, or did time itself stall so we could cross?

But our fates were sealed long ago, because you would never let the chance of something beautiful get in the way of your stubbornness. You held such grand resentment for yourself. And happiness was merely something that was lost in the fog a long time ago.

Was the clock blinking 2:13 a.m. or 4:05? Either way, the night was already spent.

I opened up the door to your tiny apartment, the bed touching three of the four walls, your craving for loneliness touching the fourth. You fell asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow. I knew had to leave, nothing connected us anymore. A stranger standing next to you as you dream. But I was frozen, you might have cut every tether, but I still couldn’t lift my anchors.

Two flights up, or three? The stairs keep slipping away.

When I finally left the apartment, my feet could no longer carry me, I sat on the stairwell, frozen in time, wondering how this came to be. There were no signs, no explanations, only a dead end. I took the subway back home, looking at all the faces, wondering what they carried in their little brown bags. Chinese takeout? Or broken souls? I found your flask in my coat pocket; perhaps I stole it while undressing you. Now I cradle it near my own heart, praying it offers the same fraudulent armor it once gave you.