I don't know how this happens. I was thinking about you last night, wondering how you would be, and in early morning's half awakeness today, you messaged. I've been regularly seeing your photograph with your best friend, your face exposed to dark pink light of perhaps a restaurant's LED cardboard. I asked you if I could meet you when you come. You said, "I think so", which is all the more scary than a perfect yes or no, but it's encouraging. While typing in a conversation where you wished to see Harry Potter and the Cursed Child in Broadway, but couldn't because tickets went expensive, I thought about the crazy typing speed that you have. It's freakish and annoying and unreal. I wonder how your thumbs don't ache. You're entrying their lottery ticket program. I pray you get it. You talked about reading more non-fiction than fiction these days, I just listened. It felt good listening to you silently. I imagine us to take off together - sit in an AMC on the banks of Rishikesh, dropped in ourselves, side by side, taking long walks in silence, to ourselves. And then after it gets over, we sit by a place and eat something, bantering. I'll tease you about how much you speak at length.
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