At a terrible jazz concert she came back to me. I remembered this time, when we were at her house, a beautiful loft overlooking a quiet neighborhood. We smoked cigarettes outside on her large balcony, talked, held hands, listened to music inside, had sax against the large, top-to-bottom window, but mostly I remember that she was waiting for me, at home, having made delicious food for us. It was a moment that struck me, because I rarely feel like someone does something just for me. It felt like I was on her mind, that she was really looking forward to seeing me. That I mattered to her.

I remembered her amazing style, her quiet way of talking, her sadness that was rarely visible. I remember the last night, riding home with her, being so distant. I miss her. I want to go back to the last night and give her an ecigarette so she could still smoke but would do less harm to herself. I want to go back to the night she cooked for me. I want to go back there and hold her, tell her that she matters and that we can try to do something together. That there is a future for us on this planet. I regret having lost her…