God, I loved him. I told him we were soul mates two weeks after knowing him. We were close. Constant sex. Long conversations. Sometimes we ate off of each other’s plate. We could sit in perfect silence without ever feeling the pressure to talk.
We decided to drive across America. We started in San Jose. We’d work our way to Michigan. He had relatives there. We went North first. Seattle and then we veered east. After about five hours we got hungry and stopped at a diner for burgers.
“Order me a milkshake too,” he said. “I have to use the restroom.” He walked off. I watched his back.
I ordered our food and waited. He didn’t come back. After half an hour I barged into the men’s restroom but it was empty. The police got involved. I stayed in town for two months. Every day I went to the diner.
I’ve spent two years searching for him. He is more of a passion missing than when I was with him. Everyday. I wake up with cold despair. I haven’t seen my family or friends in two years.
“You’ve gone missing too,” cried my mother. There’s nothing I can do about that because underneath the despair is an ocean of love. It won’t even dry up on my death.
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