Is the cat still alive?

We got him in 2005, so you know, valid question.

I think it was just weird to me that there is a real possibility the cat could be dead.

Anyway, can you believe I’m still doing this? Writing to you after all this time? I think you can. I mean, that’s probably why you quietly unfriended me.

On Goodreads.

When I signed in recently to re-activate my account.

It’s cool. I understand.

Knowing what you read is probably as intimate as catching me up on what you’ve been doing the past eight years. I don’t say that sarcastically.

I know what books mean to you. Or at least, what they MEANT to you, back when we were together.

It was my first birthday present to you. Awkwardly presented a couple of weeks after we finally met in person, in your apartment, with a cupcake and a candle.

Could I have loved you already? I don’t know. It felt that way.

We are so unwound from one another. Unbound. Memories pop up like movie scenes, with a sort of detached, distant feeling. Another time completely, so long ago I can’t remember who I was.

It’s possible this is all coming up again because of a recent reunion. A friend I haven’t seen in over ten years, who I was close to once, when you and I first started dating.

It felt comfortable and surreal and even a little nerve-racking.

Can we hit the reset button after all of this time? Partially, I think.

We agree without saying anything to not re-open wounds, to not speak of the past. And yet, I feel somewhere in there that I owe her an apology, for something. For everything?

Instead we eat pizza. With our sons. The day before the Women’s March, literally a few buildings down from the Trump building, police on horses, people in the streets. The city draped in fog.

And it makes me wonder if you and I could ever have just One Moment again.