Photo by Pascal Meier on Unsplash

Inhale.

As the smoke fills my lungs I am transported back to a cold day, December in New York City. Old snow crunches under my boots as we walk through Central Park, talking politely after months spent apart. You told me about your roommate’s strange relationship with Tupperware; why is this the only detail I can remember? That is, in addition to my memory of you, arms slung casually over the fence as I take a photograph — a bird flying over the lake and you, glancing over your left shoulder at me, a grin on your face — captured forever, thanks to my iPhone 5.

Exhale.

As the smoke leaves my lungs and the fog clears I can see that I am in my room, alone. At least I’ll always have that photograph.

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