as i sit down on my chair and open up my laptop, i find myself reluctant to adjust the brightness and volume, knowing how it is now is how you set it when we were watching youtube, in a hotel room bed, 48-something hours earlier. i check anything you touched - my keyboard and mouse, my clothes, your furhat i got as a gift - to see if it still has a tangible remnant of you; maybe a whiff of your body odor, or a sticky texture from your sweat. when i saw you depart on your train to nowhere, i stood and watched it dissappear behind a corner, to then look at it through the mirror on the opposing wall, to then see it dissappear into the dark tunnel ahead. once i have no train to look at anymore, i look around, back to the bench we were waiting for that train on. as i move up the escalator to the first floor, i look behind me, then in front of me, then behind me again, then in front of me again; for the first time in 6 days there is no one moving up the escalator with me. there is no one who's back of their head i can look ahead at, and no one to make eye contact with when i look back. i walk briefly around the station, noticing the exact location we first met at earlier that week, and then leave the building onto the market, 15 minutes before my own train home arrives. i look around. i see the street we used to always cross to get from the sidewalk to the market. the albert heijn we got chocolate bread and snacks at. i get a notification on my phone: its you. i dont want to look because i dont yet want to process that we are yet again an online couple. i walk down the market, with no one holding my hand this time, down the street with all the restaurants, i look around and see everyone is with someone else, i get that familiar feeling: that weird mix of loneliness and pitifulness. realizing i am yet again, walking in public, all by myself. and here i am, sitting here, writing this, in my room, alone, and that train is pulling you farther and farther away from me every second.

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