The library. Sobriety. The steady click-clack of keys beneath my fingers. The summer. Strong coffee and a little milk. The A$AP Rocky album. A bunch of pieces in my mind; the character, that story, that man; coming together.

The quiet, the quiet, the quiet. The becoming, the becoming, the becoming.

You’re in love with two people who aren’t really there.

One left and so you made him your ghost. You still talk to him after all this time. You know it’s not really him. Who cares who he is now? Who cares who you thought he was then? He cheers you on from the sidelines, he watches you quietly. He’s proud of who you’ve become, he tells you that all the time. He's why you've become who you've become.  He’s someone who’d be there if he could. It's not sad anymore. It just is.

The other man you love is close to coming for you. You know that he loves you. You think that you love him, too. You thought so the second you met him. But it’s almost been a year since that moment, so what’s taking him so long? He’s scared, you think. That’s okay, you tell yourself. I understand being scared. You feel the inevitability of him, like seasons changing. You remember how his hand held yours the last time you slept in his bed.