At seventeen, I was annoyed just seeing him.

At eighteen, I left home for college. He came to find me, and I kissed him.

He cried, saying I didn’t even like him.

He was right.

At nineteen, he still came to see me often, but I never told him I loved him.

At twenty, he said he wanted to discuss something important with me. I got drunk, pretending to be clueless while knowing full well, and told him to talk about it later.

At twenty-one, he disappeared.

At twenty-two, I put on a suit and went to work. There was no more news of him.

Every year after that, I kept imagining what it would be like to reunite with him.

On the day before the end of the world, I decided to go find him. I decided to tell him I had liked him, decided to say to him:

“The world is falling apart; let’s fall in love.”

I didn’t expect that he was actually waiting for me.

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