We used to dance, you and me, once upon a time. It's been years now, so I won't blame you for forgetting, but I still remember. We did it all the time, back in the day. Fast in the pulsing neon lights of clubs, or quietly, softly, in the dark of your apartment, beneath the hallway light that was always broken. We haven't danced in years now, not since you left, but it still seems to be all I'm able to think about.

You met me at the airport in Los Angeles. I was dishevelled, sleep deprived, still blinking a bad night's airplane sleep out of my eyes. We hugged. You did that thing you always used to do where you lifted me into the air mid-hug. Spun me around a few laps. It felt a little like dancing again. I buried my face in the nape of your neck, laughing into your skin, pretending.

You'd changed brand of deodorant. Your scent, the one that always floated in the air after you left for work in the mornings after I'd stayed over, the one that after a while became a synonym with home, the one that still, years later, makes my heart skip if I catch the scent on a bypassing stranger, has changed. It's the smell I was enveloped in while sleeping on your chest, nose in the base of your throat, your hand tangled in mine. You don't smell like that anymore. I guess that's how it's supposed to be. I don't know if it makes this easier or not.

We drink wine on your porch. You say Los Angeles is nice. I say Berlin is, too. You look at me, and I think about how there used to be a time where I saw you almost every single day. We're still the same, yet so different. The notion is hollow, aches around the edges, and I push it down, harder than ever before.

It's so good to see you again. Adulthood has done you good, sharpened the angles of your face and broadened your shoulders without letting go of that soft look in your face. It's hard to imagine the first time I met you, shorter and scranglier beneath a mop of unruly hair, stumbling into my ethics class having obviously overslept. You're still pretty, still have the kind of form that you want to curl up against in times of trouble. A soft, stable body that, when wrapped around you could seemingly protect from any evil.

It was my favourite place, once, that body. Your body. That space where your neck turns into shoulder, the hollow by your clavicle. Just above your heart, close enough that I could still hear it beat when I put my ear against it, that was my favourite in particular. I think it probably still is. I just haven't visited in a while.

We kissed at the airport before you left, all those years ago. I'd spent so much of our time together thinking every kiss was going to be our last one, that you'd find a worthy replacement sooner or later and that it was all just a matter of time before all of this was over. I wish I'd known all those times before what kissing someone for the very last time actually feels like. It tastes cold, stings like saltwater in your eyes. It takes something from you. I try not to think about it too much, but like the dancing, I can't seem to stop remembering.

The day I came here for arrives. I wear a thin dress in pastel pink, and you laugh about how strange it is too see me in light colours, and have a long rant about Tolstoy as I help you tie your bowtie. You always go on about Russian authors when you're nervous. The fact that I already know all the trivia you're habitually spewing makes me feel strangely proud, so intrically familiar with every nook and cranny of your soul. 

Afterwards, when the sun is setting again, the disco ball in the ceiling is casting stars across the tall white walls around us. The room is a universe, circling the couple dancing in its center. I'm standing at the very edge of it, wearing the dress I bought just for today, just for you. I watch you spin around the room, the stars falling over your shoulders. You've gotten better at dancing. Out of everything, that's almost what's worst. You look up from the girl in your arms, catching my eye for a second. You smile - beam, almost - but there are lightyears and the entirety of space between us now and nothing means what it used to.

I guess I never really knew how much you meant to me until I travelled across the world to see you dance again.

At your wedding.

Without me.

LIVAT OCH SKOJ SOM ALLTID IN THIS PLACE, SOM NI SER. (Använder jag bara ledsamma prompts till universitetsuppgifter för att ledsamhet är lättast att skriva bra och jag älskar lätta utvägar? MAYBE. Shhh)