“Pay attention. Watch how he treats his mother and listen to how he speaks to his friends about you and watch how he acts when he’s drunk and it’s 2 am and he’s lost in his whiskey-scrambled thoughts. Is he kind to waiters? How does he treat the homeless elderly man in the wheelchair asking for some spare change on the corner of First and Colorado? Make sure you pay attention. When it’s late at night and you’re curled up in his arms on his lime-green couch- the one with the red cushions- and you’re tracing the letters permanently inked on his chest, how does he respond? Does he draw you closer? Smile? Pay attention. When he’s tired, does he raise his voice at you? Does he ignore you? If he does, you should pack your bags and run. Or stay, and watch him cook you crepes with sliced (not chopped!) strawberries and an obscene amount of hazelnut-chocolate spread- just the way you like- as a wordless apology even though he’s tired and just worked a 12-hour shift and spent 5 hours at the studio working on his music. Watch him take the dishes and wash them for you because he knows you hate the feeling of grease on your fingers when you have to do the dishes. Watch him kiss you good night and hear him whisper “I love you, baby, I’m never going to leave you” when he thinks you’re asleep. Make sure you pay attention. Listen to him sing in the kitchen in the morning when he thinks you’re sound-asleep and he’s getting ready for work. Listen. Remember his voice. The songs he’s singing. Hazey. Glass Animals. Gold Dust Woman. Fleetwood Mac. Watch him prepare your morning coffee just the way you like it- 1 part coffee, 2 parts hazelnut creamer, with ice- as he sips his straight. Breathe in the sharp, spicy scent of his cologne- and he always smells of it to hide the scent of marijuana (the Devil’s Cauliflower, as he calls it) clinging to his clothes- when he kisses you to say goodbye in the morning. Make sure you pay attention. Listen to him talk when you’re cuddled up in bed at 4 pm on a lazy Sunday, just listen. He wants a dog, a French bulldog that he’d name Tommy, he loves magic tricks, he hates asparagus, he wants to live in Amsterdam, he loves his mother but hates his father, he’s afraid of failure. Remember everything. Afterwards, don’t say anything. Just hold him. Hold him tight. Make love. Your hands tangled in his hair, his pulling you closer, lips and tongue translating what words you can’t bring yourself to say. Make sure you pay attention. Does he hold you after you fuck? Or does he roll over and fall asleep? Do you just lay there and talk? Pay attention. Listen to him talk about his last ex who, according to him, was crazy, and would follow him around the city in her car to spy on him, and try to figure out if she really was crazy, or if he’s projecting some kind of pent-up male anger. Decide if you’re going to leave or stay. If you stay, make sure you know what you want. Don’t waste your own time, and don’t waste his either. Let him kiss you hard, and don’t overthink the message behind it. He’s probably high. He usually is. You can leave whenever you want. But his eyes, his goddamn eyes, they’re so green, and you find your resolve wavering. Is he crying? Is he begging? Fuck. He is. You’ve never seen him cry before. Not when his dad left. Not when you watched the wedding scene in Crazy Rich Asians. Not when his best friend died. He loves you. Holy shit. It’s real. He wasn’t just faking it. He’s breathing hard, his chest shaking from the force. He’s looking at you, green eyes pleading and you realize, holy fuck, you love this boy. And in that moment, you know what you have to do.”

“NEVER WANTED ANYBODY TO FIX ME…JUST BE BY MY SIDE WHILE I FIX MYSELF”

“Fuck, I hope it pains you I hope the thought of me fucking makes your chest ache every time you go to kiss someone else who isn’t me I hope your knees shake and your fists clench as my laugh rings through your ears that not even music so fucking loud can drown the sound of me I hope it hurts you that I’m not there anymore and I hope you still miss me on some nights where it becomes too much to bear Because I still cry myself to sleep on some nights and I still hurt where it gets up to the point that I can even feel my own heart pounding inside of my chest as I remember every broken promise we have ever made to each other So I hope it pains you like it’s been paining me ever since the day we said goodbye.”

“He’s gone you know. And you need to stop doing that thing. That thing where you’re latching onto the last ounce of hope in your heart, that he’ll come back to you one day. That he’ll call late at night and tell you he’s sorry and that he’s ready for you now. Because he’s not going to. And he’s not sorry. He’s done. And you know that. Hell, you’ve known that forever. And it’s time you stop hoping now. Because God knows how much it tears you apart-and it’s time to start healing. It’s time. It’s finally time to let go.”

“You were the person I needed when life got hard. But you turned out to be just another lesson that I needed to learn.”