A hundred days have passed since I landed in that foreign land to see you. It was a hard day. I was alone on that plane, alone and I didn’t know what will await me. You waited for me with a flower, you were there and you wanted to kiss me and I didn’t know how to react, but I kissed you. We waited for what seemed like forever in that taxi line and I felt dizzy. We then went for a walk, I took and sent pictures of paintings I shouldn’t have sent. And then you told me I’m just an extra, on top of your friends. I don’t know why I stayed with you after that. I really don’t. There was something about you. I think I realised how beautiful you are. After you hurt me, I realised how I still cared for you. I remember eating at the Mexican place. I remember looking at other women. And I remember asking you not to go running in the morning, because I wanted to be with you all night. I wanted the comfort to know that you are there for me, the full night. But you went. It sounds weird to say, but the moment I saw you leave the door to run, that was when something broke in me. Nothing should have broken there. I should have known that you love me. But something broke and I felt it. It made me incredibly sad, seeing you leave. I think I got detached then. I’m sorry. I should have been stronger. I should have known that you love me. But I was weak and tired and I was careless. I see that now. I wasted all those two weeks. I wasted them on my own sorrow. I planted it, I nurtured it, and I reaped its fruits. I miss you terribly. I miss you going out that door to run, to do what you like to do, being free and unrestricted by me, or by anyone. I miss being that extra in your life that made all the difference. I miss being with you.