So when I didn’t say the things I wanted to say, I had hoped you would know. Do you remem­ber? You’ll shake your head. We’ve become all too predictable.

          It’s already a summer-like Feb­ru­ary because we live in the Philip­pines. But we keep going back to that second week of December.

          I look golden-tan under the Star­bucks light. This is the first thing, you later told me, you notice when you walk in. I’m reading a book, Louise Erdrich’s The Sen­tence, that I won’t ever finish. Next to me, a half-full iced matcha drink. Paper straw with­ered, it slouch­es above my laptop key­board. You shift the drink away when you sit across from me. Set your bag down. I look up: endur­ing pursed lips. You stand up to order the sweet­est pos­si­ble drink I’ve ever heard of, extra pumps of hazel­nut and all. Our con­ver­sa­tions are driven by an unspo­ken attrac­tion. I can keep pre­tend­ing to read my book, and you can keep pre­tend­ing to scroll on your phone, but we don’t. Ques­tions and answers: when’s your birth­day, what’s your favorite color, have you been to that restau­rant on 28th Street, did you finish the eco­nom­ics home­work. This is where we start.

          We end on the back steps of a Family Mart, drunk and red. Your hands pushing on the warm bulbs of my cheeks, the sil­vered scars on my thighs. I won’t remem­ber a single thing we’re saying to each other. Some­times, when we go back to those nights, I get a sense of déjà vu.

          During the peak of online learn­ing, a friend of mine created a video loop of herself blink­ing and taking notes for her webcam back­ground, so that she could sleep in. We’ve become back­ground. Back­ground going unno­ticed even as it loops for the twelfth time. Same conversations—me: the moon looks so bright tonight; you: what’s with you and the moon; me: I’m so tired; you: well it is four in the morning; me: I can hear my heart­beat through my thumb; you: you love me; me: no it’s an unholy com­bi­na­tion of my arrhyth­mia and alcohol; you: God you are so crap at flirt­ing. Still, we find a rhythm. Chasing a fading adren­a­line, replac­ing our slim­ming attrac­tion and con­nec­tion with drugs and intimacy.

          We keep going back. We keep going back because no one knows but us, and if no one knows, we can behave like waves. Observ­er effect in quantum physics. We can collide and cancel out and grow.

          The things I want to say, I won’t ever say. I sing along to Frank Ocean. I’m tone deaf but you’ll say I’m good at singing. So, on this night, on these steps, I’m a great singer, and I’ll believe it.

          Second week of the new year, I am sick in bed, swollen tonsils, fever, nausea—the tri­fec­ta. You tell me to come over that night, and I say I’m too tired. I have to wake up early tomor­row morning.

          Some­times, I go back to the first week of Novem­ber. You aren’t there, and the you-shaped hole you’ve torn out of my body doesn’t exist. I’m talking to my friend on the phone, lying on an aban­doned helipad, because I want to get away. From what, I’ll never be sure. I turn on a song and hum to it, because I can’t sing and I’m remind­ed of this, even as I am utterly alone. Dust on the pad coats my hair and holes itself into the scars across my arms and legs. I lie here until the sun com­plete­ly sets. Until tangi­ness is eaten up by the dark­ness of night. Then, I run back home, because staying out late scares me.