In my mind, maybe I already have the answer, but am afraid to admit it to myself, and to him.

The other day:
“How much do you really like me?” he asked.
“Much more than I should,” was the answer I didn’t dare reply.

It is mid-afternoon now, and we are alone in a small, brightly-lit room. Outside, the world goes on its business. Here, time slows down. He sleeps, across the table that separates us. The green sofa he is on swallows him in. His new red shirt is rumpled from his moving about. He stirs, opens his eyes, gives me a crooked little smile, then goes back to navigating around in his subconsciousness.

His sleep allows me time. Time to admire the long lashes that rest gently on his cheeks. Time to memorise the shape of his lips. Time to recall how his hair feels in my hands. Time. Something we have been trying to manipulate since we started feeling something for each other. Saving time, squeezing time, dragging out time, borrowing time, stealing time, stopping time.

Time… This word is starting to break my heart.

I want you always to remember me. Will you remember that I existed, and that I stood next to you here like this?