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He made me cry, again.

It was almost passed midnight when he light-heartedly drove to my place, to drop me off, in obedience to the rules of my father. The wind blew clouds into the full moon, with the silent night interrupted by the few, pensive travelers, like us.

Chris withdrew his hold of my hand to play a CD, and to settle for a volume that romantically projected a 1971 masterpiece. “I want you to hear the original”, he said. I listened. “If you could read my mind, love”, it sings. I breathe. I tilt my head up to forcibly return the tears that acknowledged his presence.

It was just a while ago, when he capped my dreadful day at work with probably the most undervalued kind of surprise: chips and home movies. He remains unaware how little moments with him define “magical” – little moments that are natural, understood, uncoerced.

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