Sometimes I think about you, about the dream, about the story that was never told, not even by me. It was a story I chose to believe, for a few seconds, a lonely night.
It was the thought of you thinking about me, the sudden thought that it wouldn't be a great idea. The language, the carefully chosen words and the story I made up. The sort of stories I made up.
And then it was over, the sudden rush of need faded, and then you were nothing, and everything.

Then, I went to the next story...