Today PK and I exchanged what I believe will be the last of our emails, the last of our communication. I told him that I missed him, told him how I felt as though every bone in my body was longing for him. In the end, I still cannot tell if he felt the same. I still do not know if he lied each time he told me that he loved me before, or if he is lying now saying that he is unable to convince himself to love me.

And now I can’t find sleep. I keep imagining our nights together, his leg wrapped over mine, sweating beneath the sheets. I remember how we’d fall asleep with my back pressed against his chest so that I could feel it rise and fall. And how it matched the rhythm of his warm breath on the nape of my neck. The fingers of one hand would be twisted in my hair while the other hand lay lazily across my hip.

I am remembering how, in the awkwardness of our first nights together, he would make me laugh telling jokes. Terrible jokes, weak jokes, but I would laugh all the same.

I am remembering the first time he told me he loved me, that he was drunk at the time and crying because he didn’t want me to leave him that night. We were in a parking lot, and he pulled me close to him so that our foreheads were touching, our hips were touching. Pressing my head against his neck and murmured that he loved me. I’d known for months that I loved him, but was too scared to say it that night.

I won’t be sleeping tonight, I can already tell. But in the morning it’ll be over. Life goes on.