“Are you okay? Was it a bad dream?”

“I am tired of my dreams”.

“What was it?”

“I was swimming underwater and when I wanted to swim back to the surface it felt so endless that I just gave up”

“Hmm…”

“I think I am going to write an angry email to him and get myself fired”

“Don’t do it”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Then you’ll never get it sent out”

“I don’t care anymore. He can take my name out and the stuff I did out. Or we could take his name out and send it somewhere else.  Do you want to listen to some grumpy music? The dirty-three?”

“Yes.”

I looked at him sleep. He looked sad, disturbed. The few strands of grey hair among the blonde ones stared back at me. I felt helpless for him. I knew this wasn’t yet love, I knew this wasn’t even passion, I didn’t know what my feelings were for him. I thought the quiet sadness he felt was something I couldn’t touch with mere twenty-five years of living. I had to live longer to learn how it feels.

I do not know when I finally fell asleep. I did not remember my dreams and I hardly ever do these days; I wake up every morning with the same kind of emptiness and look back at my life and it looks like a terrible disaster. I stare aimlessly at the ceiling sometimes and sometimes at his ring, thinking of time that is passing us, Seattle, and the two weekends that are left with each other. I do not know what will survive of us. Also anyways, I do not know what exists between us. I try to search for something in the darkness that there is inside me and I think of someone else I once really loved and was loved by. My heart breaks.

I then go take a shower, brush my teeth, catch Tram O to work and try in vain a little bit to fix my life.