It's been 11 months since your last response             You climb the eavestrough. It's raining. My keys are on my desk, my roommate knocked out on cold meds. You're soaked, scaling my outside wall like a squirrel. I watch, drenched, too afraid to try. You slide my window open. Thirty seconds later you're letting me into my own building, blonde hair dripping, glasses fogged             I consider excuses to message you. You borrowed a book when we dated. Can't remember which one. I pick a random title, knowing it's wrong             Before our first date I slice my thumb at work, on wine foil. We go bowling, your idea. My first roll I bleed on the lane, slip, crack my head. The rest of the date is at my place, you monitoring my concussion             You say you don't use Facebook, or whatever, naked on my bed. I say I want to snoop pictures of you. You say I'll have to take them myself             You mention the diagnosis casually. Once it's over you'll practice law again, but not at a firm             After some casual texting, the first time in years, you tell me you got into law school. I'm happy for you, if you're happy             I tell you, on our second date, that I've applied to international PhD programs, there's a chance I might move away             We first meet because you sit at my bar, awaiting a job interview, a job you don't get. I pour you water even though you decline it. I miss, spilling on the bar, your lap             I scour the internet, looking for traces of you, hints you're still alive             You don't take your glasses off during sex because you wouldn't be able to see anything, and you say you want to see me             You tell me you've never traveled. I spend our fourth date encouraging travel in all forms, like I've been to exotic places. I've never been outside the country. Before you ask, I tell you I got accepted into a program, and will move away at the end of the summer             We make friendly small talk. I ask what you've been up to, planning to suggest we go for coffee. You ask if I finished my PhD. "No, and I've decided not to continue. I'm back home." I don't suggest we meet, and then you tell me that, to be honest, things have been tough, because you're in treatment for cancer             We go rock climbing. You're a natural, just like when you climbed into my apartment. I'm stunned by how strong you are. I ask what sports you played in college. You say you've never worked out a day in your life             You tell me you weigh less than 100 pounds, from the chemo and the bowel obstruction. You tell me this as a warning, for when we see each other, which we've agreed to do, one last time. I ask how something like this can happen to someone so young. You reply with a "shrugging" emoji             You tell me you want to end things, even though last week you thought you were fine to keep dating until I left. I say "ok." A month later I message if we can have coffee, just friends. You say "sure!" We meet at the subway. We fuck three times that night. We agree to continue dating, for as long as we can             After I've been at school for a semester, you ask why we didn't try long distance, say that you would have been willing             You call me the day before we're to meet, tell me you've changed your mind. It's too hard, in this terminal state. I don't tell you I'm devastated I won't see you. We text throughout the day. I ask, "How long?" Two to six months. Palliative bed is in the house now. Your tone on the phone has been sad, but now you say you're euphoric. Feelings fluctuate radically. At the moment, you feel free. These are the last texts I receive from you. The next day             I never hear word, officially. At first, I assume you've chosen to end this newfound correspondence, because you find it too hard. I keep messaging you. I wonder what I've done wrong. I fear the worst. There's nothing online. No obituary. No updates. I don't know your family. Those few members whose social medias I find haven't posted in years. I can't find photos of you, any evidence you existed, except the images in my head. These blocks, fragments, in whatever order they come             At your place, during a record heatwave, we lie on top of the sheets, naked, fans blowing, proud of ourselves. You say you feel this should be the last time we see each other, to give the hurt of my upcoming departure some cushion. I say "Ok." Two days later you call, ask if I want to take a trip to a national park, go hiking. I say "Ok". It pours the whole time and we build our tent in the rain. You laugh at my ineptitude, my water-logged grumpiness. You do the bulk of the hard work. You wring water from your shirt onto my face while I nap, and keel over laughing at my thrashing. We watch a brown bear scratch its back against a tree, and then stumble and roll down a hill. You attempt to follow the bear but I stop you. The bear runs off when it sees you staring at it. I rip a hole in the tent when I slip while peeing outside and grip the thing out of panic. You use scotch tape to patch it. We sleep with an impromptu skylight. The sky is clear and we see outer space through our tent hole. "Look at all that dazzling shit out there," you say. You lie on my chest. I don't remember sleeping that night. You lie awake too, I think. I don't remember            I remember.

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