Of all the experiences we shared, and all the silly names we called each other, and all the love we poured into each other, and then back into ourselves, and all the days and nights we tainted our souls with, I never thought that I would suddenly miss you on a Sunday evening. Years, and months, and several lifetimes later. Alone and strong, fragile yet hopeful, in a faraway place with faraway dreams, with all of the ‘i’s crossed and none of the ‘t’s dotted. But I missed you today and in a way like never before. And funnily enough, it was the one bad Sunday that I remembered the most – when we ended up twisted in a fight with a plate that got ruined while microwaving popcorn. There were glimpses of other Sundays as well – with me sleeping like a log through most of the evening and waking up all groggy and disoriented while you brought me a huge mug of tea. I never told you this, but it was never just the way I like it. No one ever gets it right. My tea, my coffee, my eggs, my life – no one gets that right but me. And then I also thought about the Sundays where we lay splayed across the sofa with our legs entwined, drinks in hand, subtitles on the screen. My mind always wandered and you always brought me back, but not quite. You could never contain my thoughts, not even now with a gulf of regret spread out between us. And yet you seem so within reach, so within aching grasp, so within everything we had ever imagined together. Maybe someday I’ll think of you on a Monday instead.