Had a dream about N--- last night: we were at a swimming pool or a high school football stadium, but we were together holding hands was all that mattered. Woke up to my alarm, and in my sleepy fog, I was surprised he hadn't texted me. Once the fog wore off, I remembered he was never going to send me midnight texts again.

I took a walk around the block. Drank in Utah October, the air cleaned up from the rain. Thought about all the things I will never get to do with him that I always wanted. Thought about camping with him and talking his ear off. Thought about the planetarium and the aquarium. Thought about Southern Utah and the farm, and thought about my little bridge over the canal that I wanted to picnic with him and throw crumbs to the ducks. Thought about the songs I would never sing along to with him, and thought about how weird it is now for us to build our lives separately.

And then I thought about that imaginary camping trip, and how I would say
"I just can't believe all the stars."
He'd say something scientific.
I'd say
"What a gift from God." I'd sigh deep. He'd roll his eyes in the dark, stoke the fire.
He would say something about his version of science.
I'd question his proof, and then I'd question his proof for the proof.
He would try to change the subject.
I'd already have started crying.
His face would become a wall.
I'd cry my mascara into his white t-shirt, like usual, whispering, Please God, I don't know why You don't save him.
He'd say we're going to be just fine and he would get up to find a log to throw on the fire. And it would go like this for a lot of years.

Which is why--

Which is why now and which is why the planetarium and the crumbs and the ducks will have to wait.