Lately, I have been sleeping with the window open at night, just so I can hear the cars on the highway, 30 stories below. It makes it easier to lie awake and pretend we are back on the road again. But sometimes, on those particularly unbearable evenings, I walk down to the docks and wait for the moon to rise. In those moments of solitude, I think about all the things I will never get used to: waking up in the morning, sitting on the roof alone, staring at the starless skies, the gnawing hunger that never seems to go away. 

I wonder what I was thinking, leaving you and all those other puzzle pieces behind, leaving me with all these empty spaces between my fingers. I could pretend, you know, that it is less lonely this way, to know that we are both pulling on this thread that stretches around the world. And I could take comfort, knowing that somewhere on another roof, in another city, you might be watching the same tide rise and fall against the sand. But if I were to be honest with myself for once, it's not quite the same. So I find myself in this unprecedented situation where I am trying to learn how to forget, and it leaves me with the worst feeling of all.