The Last Good Day

I. Mine

We were just hungry.

That's how it started.

Not in the poetic way people remember things—

just a craving and a clock.

We split fries like always,

your knuckles brushing mine

like they still had more time.

I laughed too loud at something small.

You smiled like it mattered.

The lights in the restaurant were warm and dim

like we were inside a held breath.

Back at your place,

you kissed my shoulder

like a thank you.

No urgency,

just the way bodies remember each other

before they forget.

We didn’t say much.

Not in the good way, the quiet that feels safe.

And when you drove me home,

you said,

“I love you,”

soft, like it might shatter on the steering wheel.

I remember thinking,

so this is it—

the moment the ground becomes a bed

instead of a drop.

Two days later

you were a mouth of apologies

and eyes that had already let go.

You said

you'd been thinking about it.

But I lived that night

like you hadn’t.

II. His

I knew.

Even when I asked where you wanted to eat,

I knew.

I was staring at the clock too,

but counting something else.

You were so easy to be with.

That’s what made it hard.

You laughed like the world hadn’t failed you yet,

and I—

I was already halfway gone,

dragging my feet through one last perfect scene.

Dinner felt like déjà vu.

You dipping fries,

your fingers dancing just close enough—

a rhythm I could still follow,

but not for long.

At my place,

you kissed me like a promise.

And I kissed you like an apology.

Not that you noticed.

(I hoped you wouldn't.)

The silence scared me.

Not because it was wrong,

but because it was right.

And I couldn’t stay in a life that fit me

only when I shrank.

On the drive,

I said,

“I love you.”

Because I did.

Just not in the way I should have.

You smiled like it meant everything.

And I gripped the wheel,

counting the turns

toward the end

I couldn’t stop building.