My therapist asked me what makes me happy and all I could think to say was the look in your eyes when you saw the sun setting or the feeling of your fingers tracing my skin or the way your lips tasted when you'd been drinking those sweet cocktails that have more an effect than you'd think, or maybe even the sound of your car pulling into my driveway. She asked me why I always speak about you in past tense when you're still here and I reminded her of our first session when she told me that nothing is permanent and everything is temporary, so you must be temporary too. I want to prepare myself for the day you leave because I know for every minute you're here it's going to be harder to say goodbye. I imagine you being half way out the door, one foot in and one foot out, when I know you're actually sat next to me, too scared to touch in case I break, but with me all the same. I told my therapist that I want to be alone when I die, and if I'm not alone I want everyone to expect it and know that it's going to happen because some people leave you so suddenly you're left with holes in your life I don't want to be the person to hurt you like that.