My hands trembled as I reached out to touch him, uncertain if it was the final time he would hold me in his arms.
By design, the glass had been half empty when we met – I knew we would never be like anyone else, and the years I had left in comparison to his would be the ones that would define the rest of my life. His, however, had already passed, before I even managed to utter my first words.
He was a profile on a shattered screen; I was a name in Helvetica in his recommended likes. We are our illusions, and we have successfully deceived one another into some makeshift, one night love affair.
It was inevitable, they all understood, and so did I – the moment they left the city, they would be nothing.
We’d make love to ourselves, talking out our bright futures, then make love to each other, grasping for a depth that had not been explored by most of our peers.