Nothing happened between us. We hardly knew each other, but he listened patiently while I talked about me, my parents, my friends, my likes and dislikes, about everything. He asked questions and waited smiling for me to answer them. And I was so preoccupied to make him see the real me, that I didn’t realise I knew nothing about him. Not that he was a great talker or would satisfy my curiosity - no, even if I had asked, he wouldn’t have told me about ex-girlfriends, if he was afraid of death, what his favourite colour was, if he had pets. I’m sure he would have found a way to avoid answering me. But I’m not surprised. It’s typical of him.

And I remember… what do I remember of those 3 days we spent together? Everything. I remember everything. How I wanted to always be near him when we went dancing, the morning we spent in my kitchen talking in a low voice not to wake up the other ones, drinking tea and trying to avoid awkward pauses in the conversation, his hair, him baking cookies and me wanting to believe they were specially for me, not understanding everything he told me and making him say the same things all over again or making him explain unfamiliar words, his T-shirts with witty messages printed on them, the tube rides, the tea we drank together, his watch, the way he kept on asking so, when are you planning on going?, me not letting him take a picture of me, the way I grabbed his hand and dragged him down the stairs and never wanting to let go of his hand, the many pauses in our last day conversations and me wanting to tell him how great those days with him had been, how good I had felt being around him, what a great listener he was, how I didn’t want him to go, how much I liked him, almost shouting all those things to him in the middle of the street, but, instead, biting my lips, looking away from him and not saying a thing; the many trips to the store we made together, not being able to sleep the night before he left and him asking me to tell him a bedtime story and me being grumpy and going into the kitchen, hoping he would follow me, but he didn’t; the notebook he asked me to write down my address for him, the quick kiss on the cheek I gave him just before he left the apartment, him not looking back, the sadness and the tears that followed, me listening obsessively to Just like heaven and waiting, hoping, praying for an e-mail, postcard, letter, any message from him.

And after all these months I still can’t let go. I don’t want to let go. The more I think about it, the more I feel it was all in my imagination, that it never really happened, that we never actually met. Maybe he’s just a dream.