The next day I finish my work early, fortunately, Hart is not at home. My things are still in the boxes, so I just call the moving van and wait in the room, packing things I used for this couple of months.

Ten minutes later, my things travel from the loft to the van. I take one last look around the room and leave.

This is it.

Mom meets me on the threshold of our house, she looks at me affectionately. She looked at me the same way when I left. Dad is not home yet. My boxes end up in the garage.

"Are you staying with us?" Mom asks. I can't answer her right away because my mouth is full of pancakes. I always loved them. Mom watches me with pleasure and a smile on her face.

"I don't know yet. I just wanted to stay for a while, if it's not too much of an inconvenience."

"Of course not, dear. Stay as long as you want." She smiles and strokes my hand. "I'm glad you are here."

I see that she wants to ask something else, and after a long pause, she says, "Did something happen? And don't say no, you brought all your things here. Are you not going to come back to the city?"

"It's just... I have no place to live for now. And no money."

"What about your job?"

"I'm still a part-time photographer..."

"Gray, is it... Is it because of Kyle?"

Your name touches something inside me.

"No... not really," I say thoughtfully. "I'm fine, really. Your pancakes will heal me from everything," I smile, and she again gently strokes my hand and does not ask any more questions. I'm glad. She always knows when to ask and when to stop.

In the evening, sitting alone in my dark room, I remember Hart again. But here the memories of you are brighter, which is why I wanted to leave. I could not stand their sharpness. And now I need it. I want to develop your picture in me again, vivid and vibrant. I want Hart's image to turn bleak and dull. And not vice versa.

The next day I commute to work, the road is quite long. The studio boss gives me a few days off, though reluctantly. I just have to get through this day.

I have planned the next day already. I'll go to the cemetery... and in general, that's all, there I will stay for the whole day...

...as it was before...

Ten minutes are left until the end of the working day, and Emma comes into my office.

"There's someone looking for you," she says and adjusts the bracelets on her arms.

"Let them come here. I still have a couple of things to do."

Emma leaves, and a minute later Hart walks through the door.

I really want to freeze on a spot and stare at him with a surprised look, but I pretend that I don't care and continue to collect my things.

I'm terribly curious why he came, but Hart is in no hurry to satisfy my curiosity.

"This is money... for the bail." Hart hands me the banknotes, but I don't take them, and he puts them on the empty table. "And also..." He slips his hand into his back pocket. "You forgot this." A plump envelope appears on the table next to the banknotes.

I am such an idiot...

These are your photos. And I forgot them and never even remembered about it. But Hart's photographs are in the bag that I always carry with me.

So... I think everything is clear.

"As I get it you are not coming back," Hart says plainly.

"Nope," I reply, not looking at the envelope where my whole life with you is. And its finale. In the last photo in this envelope, I stand alone at your funeral a little over a year ago. I don't know who took this photo.

Hart is marking time as if he wants to say something, but can't. He opens the door to leave, then turns and asks, "Do you need a ride?"

I want to refuse. That is, I must refuse. But then I think that maybe this is the last time I see him. And I want to pay tribute to my vague feelings, which (I hope) never grew into something tangible. So I agree.

We're driving through the suburbs. I don't think about anything. I love the way the wind flutters the collar of my shirt. I like the smell of machine oil, I like the scent of Hart.

I allow myself to relax. This is the last time after all...

We turn to the road with no lights. The front wheel of the motorcycle hits something. I hear a pop and almost fly off the bike. The bike tilts, runs further, then falls on its side, and stops.

"Are you okay?" Hart asks immediately, getting to his feet. The hit was not too strong. But my heart fell. Nevertheless, I nod.

We ran into some large debris that punctured the wheel. The skin on Hart's arm is peeled off.

"My home is not far from me here," I say. And we roll the motorcycle to my house.

Surprised mom greets me and the unexpected guest with a bleeding hand. But with her usual delicacy and care, she leaves questions for later and helps Hart handle the bandages. And then persuades him to stay for dinner.

"I need to call a tow truck," Hart says after dinner somehow timidly.

"You can do it in the morning," says mom. "Get some rest, and tomorrow Mr. Murray will help you, won't he, Richard?"

Mr. Murray is our neighbor, and Richard is my father. He is laconic and only nods at what my mother says.

Hart wants to refuse, but it's clear that he has a gap in the area of polite refusals, and he does not want to offend anyone with rudeness.

"We don't have a guest room. But I can make a bed in the living room. Or... Gray has a sofa in his room."

Thanks, mom...

After dinner, we go up to my room. There has been no one but you. But Hart is invading everywhere. Apparently, my heart and thoughts are not enough for him.

 I light the lamp on the bedside table.

"The sofa is not very comfortable, so..." I say. But Hart doesn't seem to hear me and lies down on it, exhaling noisily.

I lie down on the bed. And although I'm tired, I don't want to sleep at all. I feel like a teenager - stupid and naive, who blushes in the presence of his object of adoration. Yes, and Hart is my Prince Charming...

I almost laugh out loud at this thought.

Oh God, I'm such a kid...

You were not older, but you were much wiser than me. I miss this.

And Hart is no match to you...

It's good that he doesn't hear my thoughts. It looks like he fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.

It's a strange feeling... He doesn't feel like a stranger here at all. Though he should, shouldn't he?

I hope you are not looking at me from above...

"Is this Nintendo?" Hart asks all of a sudden. I throw my glance at the shelf with my old video games.

"Yes," I answer.

"Is it working?"

"You want to play?" I smirk, but Hart props himself on elbows. I get out from the bed and turn on the TV.

After couple of minutes, I sit next to Hart on the floor with a joystick in my hand.

"What do you wanna play?" I ask.

"Street fighter," Hart grins. I don't remember him being so upbeat in weeks!

We start the game.

"Let's bet," says Hart before I could hit Start.

"Bet? Like money?"

But Hart scoffs, "I think we're both broke. How'bout play for a wish?"

I'm eying Hart. The feeling tickles. If I win... But what if I lose?

"Nothing nasty, just to make it interesting," he adds.

"Ok," I nod. Hart was right this way it's interesting. But I have a feeling that Hart is playing lazily and in the end he lets me win. Nevertheless, I'm glad and look at him with a wide grin.

"So?" he looks at me waiting. But I suddenly don't know what to say. The silence drags on. Hart turns away and looks at his hands.

This silence seems awkward but somehow intimate. I've never been so close to Hart before. And now he is in my childhood bedroom, playing games with me... A bizarre fantasy.

It's like we've never had a fight, and I haven't moved out away from him.

"Well?" he turns back to me. "Or you wanna save it for later?"

Later... like there will be "later".

I clear my throat and give it another thought. The thing is I don't want him to do something stupid. Maybe if we were teenagers and friends I'd gladly make him do something embarrassing. And I'd laugh... but we are not friends, we are not close. And my only wish is... silly and impossible. But I can get a piece of it.

"I wanted to ask you. Don't answer if you don't want..." I start, but Hart breaks me easily.

"The scar on my neck is from my father," he glances at me as if checking. "He tried to cut off my head with a circular saw."

I am silent, but his words make me feel uneasy.

"I just saw the way you looked at it. Have I granted your wish?" he grins casually.

"Why would someone do something like that?" I utter finally. It's not curiosity, it's a shock I couldn't hold back. Hart scoffs, but doesn't answer. Apparently, I don't have enough points for this part of the story. Need a bonus level...

"I have one scar," I say. I think it's only fair to share something personal in exchange, or maybe it's another foolish attempt to prolong the illusion of our closeness. "On the hip. Eight inches. Got in an accident."

"Is that why you don't drive?"

Well, Hart turned out to be observant. But he also does not have enough points.

I fall asleep with a strange feeling. It's hard for me to name it. "Not-loneliness". Yes exactly. I feel "not-loneliness".