The change came eventually; I can't tell you exactly when, but it came nonetheless- like a knife deliberately cutting through the rumpled sheets of a bed. I don't know how to talk about it and neither is it something you can easily conjure up in polite conversations. What choice of words do I use? Should I sound more somber? Must I have more remorse? Am I coming off too cold? The end is something I don't know how to write about but let's keep it simple: it is something we're both in. 

August arrived with a storm trailing close behind it. We met with goodbyes, inclement weather, and a suspension of classes. I remember telling you once, "You can't just disappear like that. When you leave someone, you give them a proper goodbye." Then you answered, "But I don't want to see anyone cry because of me." "No. You tell that person you're leaving because they deserve to know. If they cry, you have to stand there and know that this is your doing. When you're about to shoot someone you can't just shut your eyes. You face the results, see the consequences. You stand there and you shoot." 

I didn't know then that I was talking about myself.  

I know that there must be some lesson derived from all of this but I'm tired of analyzing and there doesn't have to be a moral in every story. We've breached a contract, reached a fork in the road again. It lasted longer than the last but still ended sooner than we expected.

So here we are again.