Sleep is, as most nights, not coming easy to me. I could drown myself in nighttime medicines which would make this a much easier battle, but for some, masochist reason, I am choosing otherwise. So I lay here, staring at the ceiling although I’ve left the television on with some mediocre movie playing. The glow is enough light for me to be able to see every crack in the ceiling above me and I want to concentrate so badly on every single line I see, but in my mind all I see is him. I try to think of anything else, of anyone else, but still, once my eyes close I see you.

I see you walking down the street to meet me and walk me inside through the soft, drizzling rain. I see you smiling, laughing at the movie you’ve chosen for us (since I was never good ad deciding on just one). I see you looking into my eyes, it always felt as though you were looking into my soul. I see you in the dark, telling me all the stories of your life you could fit into one night. I see you, on the last day we ever saw each other, smiling a half-smile, waving goodbye as I drove away. I see you. I see you everywhere. I see you all the time.

The movie has ended and I am still unable to drift away. Though I wasn’t paying attention to it to begin with, I start it over. I need that low volume coming from the speakers; though it isn’t much, it helps – just a little – to fill the void I feel throughout the night. I toss and turn, but I still can’t force my mind to calm down, to be as empty as I feel my soul to be.

Somehow, I finally drift away into slumber. Was it at the end of the movie, or before the climax when things were still good? I’ll never be too sure. All I know is that my mind loves to play these petty tricks on me because all I dreamt of that night was that I had found myself back with you.