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Alessia Boccara

Today I visited the old coffeeshop on the corner of the street, right at the bottom beside Ms Green’s house. I bought the same thing I always did. A caramel latte with a smoked cheese and chilli bagel. I sat there with my book in hand but not one word was read, nor was a bite taken.
            I couldn’t help but remember the first time we sat in that little booth in the corner, you know, when Jamie still worked here. The way we would set up blockades to the outside world with our laptops and piles of accounting books, littered with coffee-stained paperwork as we tried to make our dream come true. I choose to believe that our dream was your reason to fight, and I am glad you did because even though you aren’t here and my memories of you hurt, I have the business to keep me occupied. It keeps my mind away from thoughts of you.
            You didn’t even say goodbye, but I get it. It hurt too much to admit defeat.
            I want to ask you how you are. If your journey was comforting. I feel the need to tell you that I miss you and I wish you were still here, but that would be cruel, and I can’t be cruel to you.
            I wish I could still sit in the shop without thinking about who I used to be. Who I was before you.
            Now I am here, sitting in the coffeeshop on the end of the street, right around the corner from where we lived before you passed.
            Now I go back to an empty house with a grumbling stomach and an untouched book.