We avoid each other’s eyes in a convenience store and you leave first. You’ve always been
a step ahead of me; on two different pages of the same book but now the distance has become
glaringly clear. I step outside in a rush to catch a glimpse of you and it seems futile because all
the other times you’ve just left first. But you’re waiting there in your white car and I try my best
not to look at you and I don’t. And I pretend I can feel your eyes on my back. And maybe, just
maybe, they are there but it doesn’t make a difference now. I wish you’d look at me, rather than
through me.