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.