Loved.
Loved vigorously. I told you that I was afraid that something might happen to you in the corridors of Barcelona, hugged me hard in the lounge of Silverstone, kissed me over the tea room on a snowy night, and talked about the yard by the sea, the blanket in winter, and the long-term future on the sofa.
Later, I don't know from which day I forgot to say I love you. The only words left in the dialog box are "Received", "Viewed" and "Okay". Four phone calls in seven months, not one of them was about me missing you.
Only seven words were said to break up. Take care of yourself. Good.
Later, the days passed. Train, compete, win championships, sign new contracts. I just occasionally found a line of text in an old USB flash drive, hidden on the last page of the data: When you drive the car I built, I am happier than anyone else.
That man stood in the corridor many years ago and reached out to me, but I didn't take it. The door is closed. The road is still there. I'm on.
Purpose: Emotional Analysis
