I stopped writing about love for a moment. I stopped writing about you. Instead I wrote about freshly fallen snow, summer rain, newly cut grass, clothes fresh out of the dryer, tears of joy, tight hugs, old books, running through an open field under a blue sky, and sunsets. I wrote about starry skies and pine trees. I wrote about the city skyline and the way the hue of a morning’s coffee changes when you sweeten it. I wrote about every beautiful thing that doesn’t remind me of us. Yet somehow, even this became about you.