She told him, before they parted ways, “If you ever want me again, you must come to me; for every day if I didn’t run to you, I thought about it, assuming that not even for a second you never felt the same. I may not come for you in the winter, I may not even in the spring. For soon enough I will have nothing more to tell you, I will have no tears to show you, the days will make me tired, maybe even tired of you. I will have no more cares to give, sympathetic words, careless reassurances. Even if I wanted to give you all those things, I won’t, not until you come to me, because its only fair. Because you do the same. You have showed me that your life is yours, my mine my own. Oil and water. And while we have poven the two can stay together in a cup, they will never mix. But, if you ever want a fire like I assume we’ve had before, come to me, and if you ever care, run.” And then she left, without hearing, nor caring, if he said farewell or goodbye