Exactly like me.
She sits there for an hour doing nothing but surviving me.
I stay outside for an hour doing nothing but surviving her.
When she leaves the building, she heads back towards Parnell Street, to the theatre, as I hide away like a delinquent and keep watching her, spying on her: feeling her even if she can’t feel me.
Like every other fucking day.
I watch her walk away slowly, weaving between the crowd, as I feel my heart getting smaller and smaller every minute.
I follow her steps towards Parnell Street, grab my motorbike that I left parked by Chinatown, and I jump on, ready to face another day of pretending that everything’s fine, that I’m fine, that nothing’s happened. That I’m not slowly dying.
Like every fucking other day.
Exactly like her.
