“Hey, do you ever think about your future?”

I look up from where I was writing the equation.

“What?” I ask.

You sigh, closing your textbook and looking at me.

“Your future. You know, where you’ll be in five years. Who you’ll be with. What you’ll be doing. Do you think about it?”

I want to say yes. I want to tell you that I sometimes wish it was my hand that you held. That we trades notes during lectures, and would come to the same home after long shifts and be greeted by the sight of the other person. Domestic and in love. I want to say that I have memorized how you like your coffee so I can make it just right for you one day. I want to tell you that my heart belongs to you, has belonged to you since the moment you made me laugh, and will always belong to you. I want to tell you how you make me wax so much poetry about you I have written so many promises I wanted to whisper on your skin that eventually were never spoken. I have revised so many texts I never sent. I have letters, unmailed, dedicated to you that have taken up a locked drawer. I want to tell you all this and so much more.

But I don’t.

“No, not really,”

I say, blinking back sorrow.