I missed him in New York. I was just passing through as most of my time spent in the city. As I walked along Eighth from the port authority bus terminal to Penn Station. I couldn't stop thinking about all the previous times I had walked this path. Like layers of overhead projector transparencies. Earlier versions of me weaved through the crowded sidewalk to catch a bus, sweating in the May heat. Another of my past selves struggled to keep a poorly packed winter break duffle from tipping on its two wheels. He was walking beside one of me, holding her hand. Sharply, he grabbed my arm and swung me toward him. He kissed me hard as people rushed around us. A few tears had already been leaking out and a few more escaped when he whispered in my ear "Be strong." I couldn't speak so I nodded, thinking, I am strong. My god, this is so hard. - But that was another lifetime. A video clip from some cheesy romantic movie. I miss it and I miss him. And I'm sitting on this train on a Sunday, knowing that I have to work tomorrow and move on with the rest of my life. And some days I have accepted that he isn't coming back, but mostly I'm not ready to believe that the boy who pressed his lips to mine like the world was ending around us will never kiss me again.