That night we held each other.

Well, I held him.

I cradled him in my arms. He pressed his forehead into the nape of my neck and as I rocked him back and forth, his tears splashed onto my shirt and I was stained with this hurt.

While I rubbed his back, I resisted the urge to take too deep a breath. I knew that if I caught his scent again, I would drown in my own emotion. I resisted the urge to tell him that I recognized the sound of his heart breaking, because mine had made the same sound. I resisted the urge to kiss away his tears. And that resistance took everything in me.

He poured out what little was left of his heart out to me.

I was sympathetic. I was understanding. I was kind.

I was stupid.

When he tilted his head up toward mine I was foolish enough to believe that we would kiss.

I was foolish enough to believe he came because he wanted me back.

He muttered, "Thank you" and I held him tighter.

It felt like old times.

Indeed they were old times.

Times when I loved him more than I loved myself.

Times when I loved him more than he loved me.

Times when he didn't love me at all.

But I held him like that made no difference at all. Because in that moment, it didn't.