There, I’ve said it, standing at the door holding the trash while you sit on the couch and we’re both crying. I’ve fallen in love with a place that I can never revisit or come back to, because if and when I do, it will be different. Like a familiar stranger I once held in my arms and cried for. And I will be different too. Already I am not the same girl who ran away from home only to realise she was running from herself. You see, I’m not really going home, because I don’t really have a home to return to. She closed the door too quietly one morning and it’s never truly been home ever since. But I think I’ve made myself a home here with you, because it is what it is and I can’t deny it or call it anything else, when I slam the door and announce “je suis maison!” and you’re standing in your pyjamas cooking for me. Like with everything else, we fall very fast and we forget very slowly. Even as we reminisce, everything is becoming just a memory, that we pack into boxes and pray that it stays intact when the plane lands in humid reality. We wake up and realise that it has only been a dream, that we had forgotten we’ve been dreaming. What is it about this place, with all its filth and foreignness, that overcomes us with its quiet yet compelling beauty? The feeling can only be described as subliminal, and we cry for what we’ve come to love too late. But all things of beauty are transient, and like you said while we were watching the lights and the carrousel, the transience just gives it added dimension. It is harder for you because I have always been resigned to losing everything I begin to love. I’ve watched the trees die and our plastic cat jardin die and I wonder if I stay, my love for this place will die too, in the freezing embrace of my first winter. It is as I’ve said, one by one everyone has left, and this is no longer a place for us - it is time to go. The lights dim and the play ends, and we spend the rest of our lives in between remembering and forgetting. But for now we have to go.