It’s easier to say this: when I listen to those songs my stomach aches in remembering. Bright, dewy mornings walking through those carpeted halls past your room, knowing I’d soon see you. The music in my ears amplified that feeling of waiting, waiting to hear the sound of your voice as you happily walked in with your head turning. Every morning it never faded. That waiting. Waiting for you to walk in, glowing with the reflection of light off the water on your skin, cheeks red from the miles ran. And I had been waiting. Eating food on small plates, so small we had to pile our food like children whose eyes are larger than their stomachs. I’d get distracted in lilting conversation and noticing the way you threw your head back when you were embarrassed laughing. I’d eat too slow and you’d wait for me. Walking together to scoop that just perfect taste of New England ice cream in the summer. Sitting in the kind of chairs that pressed into your skin, leaving a pattern on your legs to trace your fingers on. My fingers resting on your arm as we slept that last night side by side. I waited while you packed the next morning and I waited as your bags were placed in the undercarriage. You waited to hug me last, after everyone else. I waited for you to hug me one last time.