When you leave, nothing much would change. I’d still be doing the same things and you’d be doing exactly what you have always done. I’d still be the ball of nerves you knew me as, would still be the forgetful one. You’d still be your awesome self, I suppose. I have no idea why I’m writing about you. I mean, it’s not as if we went through something important or life-changing together. Perhaps I saw you as a fixture, someone who’d always be around ‘though not completely involved in my affairs. Maybe I need you to guide me, to stare at me with those angry eyes, and remind me I can’t suck. I must feel sad about your decision to go. I must be affected on the inside. I must be scared to be let alone on my own. I must feel regretful that we never got close. Maybe I really wanted to be a fixture in your life. Only, I don’t qualify. Maybe this is why I’m writing about you leaving. Maybe I want more chances to prove myself worthy of standing beside you. Maybe I’m way into my daydreams. Maybe I need this dose of reality. Maybe we just can’t be, ever, not at all. Never.