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It chills me to think what might have happened if I hadn't run down to the underground room yesterday morning. No; what wouldn't have happened, what I would never have known.

You're holding again, for yourself and for him, and when I saw you from the back, I pictured you in my head just like i'd done for three years. And I saw you, I saw you in the flesh, and you were real. You weren't on paper, you weren't a picture in my head, you were real, and my heart jumped just like it jumps for someone else now; it sprung out of my chest and ran towards you and embraced you like we were on the paper I wrote you on. And you knew my name.

I looked at you. Your body has changed; it's not the stick it once was. Two children. But your face is still gaunt and angled, and your hair is still dark, and your hands are still small.

You weren't meant to be there. You ripped open an old, old wound when I saw you, and I should mind, but I don't, even though I know by the end of next week I will have to say goodbye to you again.

But I knew it all along; I knew that you wouldn't just go without saying goodbye.

So for this next week, that's what I'll be doing every time I see you, because I know this is the last time I'll be seeing you with my eyes.

My eyes are lucky. For a week, they will be beautiful. Goodbye my darling.

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