With him, everything is a test, affection is measured, that given weighed against that which has been received, and the balance, more often than not, disappointing him.

He leans across to look at me. I think how attractive he is, that if he had been less damaged, I might have been in real trouble.

“Will I see you again?” he says.

“No,” I reply. “No. It’s over.”

— Adapted from Before I Go to Sleep, S.J. Watson


The image of us in bed crept into the back of my mind as I read that passage. Interestingly, different as we were, 同床不同梦 never applied to us because we were both after the same thing. It was a pure oversight on God's part for bringing two self-seeking souls together.

The clouds parted to reveal an orange yolk. The chirping birds witnessed your fingers intertwining with mine for the first time as we crumbled into each other’s arms. You firmly clasped my hands in yours and, with an occasional soft squeeze, silently reminded me that you were there.

For someone who never liked opening up, talking to you was, surprisingly, a cathartic release. Is it cliche of me to say I’m glad we met only after I was stripped of my innocence and credulousness? It would have caused a catastrophe — possibly one that you silently sought — otherwise.

An absurd thought crept into my mind as we watched the sun painted the buildings a dirty yellow — the second time that fortnight. Despite it being excruciatingly obvious we were never meant for the aisle, I wondered, for a fleeting moment, could I live with this forever?

After all, they say the brain is like a muscle that you need to keep active. You picked my brains, you gave me challenges, your mind worked quickly to compete against mine. And I liked being around you because it comforted me to know that someone is as messed up as I am, perhaps even more.

“Leave.”
“I can't. Not yet. She’ll never really let me go. She likes the game too much.”
“Then stop playing it.”

 I can't. I'm getting so much better at it.  

— Gone Girl, Gillian Flynn