You’re on the phone ordering Chinese food and I want to ask if you’ve ever made your mother cry.

When’s the last time you told her you loved her? How often do you apologize?

You’re laughing at something on Gchat, and I’m wondering if you’ve ever had your heart broken.

Did you go to work the next day? How did you tune out the screaming in your head?

We’re at the bar asking about beer specials, and I’m trying to guess how it felt the first time you moved to a new city on your own. Did the world span out endlessly in front of you, or was it all fences and Exit signs?

How does it look now?

When you crumple that receipt, all I can think is: I don’t even know your middle name.

Your alarm goes off, and I still don’t know what you do when it feels like the world is hanging like barbells from your shoulders.

We’re getting dressed, and I’m swallowing all of my questions. Brushing my teeth, and asking about breakfast instead.

‘Bye, I’ll say, because it doesn’t feel that Good, does it?

‘Bye, like the air, heavy with electricity right before a downpour. And yet: it’s the nicest day we’ve seen in weeks.

‘Bye, and yet the metro still came on time, and I got a seat to myself. That wasn’t so bad, was it?

‘Bye, like This isn’t working anymore or I’m moving out, and then breakfast, with nobody to hand you the milk for your coffee. Eating your cereal alone.

‘Bye, like a day, not a decade — like a pinch, not a bullet.

‘Bye, like See you again soon, not Have a nice life.

‘Bye, and I think I can do this.

‘Bye, and I’m bracing myself.

Crack an egg and watch as it creeps sleepily across the pan. As the yolk slides back and forth. Drop a cube of cheese on top, and as it sizzles, open a window. Let the goosebumps slide down your back.

Sit down at the table with your favorite faded blue plate. Your mother’s wedding china. Twirl the cheese around the fork until it’s a spindly white string; try to taste the orange in the orange juice before swallowing. Don’t use a napkin.

Turn on the shower and wait until steam is curling around the curtain before you get in. Stand for a moment, letting the water heat up your skin until it starts to burn. Squeeze your eyes shut and pour soap over your head. Let it slide over your ears and down your shoulders.

Climb out, and stand naked. Stop.

Observe something subtle that only you would know about yourself — like how it feels for the hot air to start sucking your hair dry. How it feels to walk down the hallway. How it feels to sit down on the bed. What it’s like to be inside your own head.

Wrap yourself in a sheet — the towels are dirty — and step onto the porch. Take note of the electric green grass. The paint peeling off the rocking chairs. The birds speaking to each other, and the intimacy in how only they can know what they’re saying. In how only you can know what you’re thinking. Because intimacy doesn’t require two people, does it?