Dear Pit,
I've spent three months in an expensive hotel surrounded by glamour and solitude, planning to escape but then realizing that no one would notice anyway. I've spent three months in a city I didn't know, lost and doubtful and so so small. Paris makes you feel this way. It makes you feel forgotten.
And I turned off my phone because somehow reading cheesy messages from people I don't care about and who don't care about me makes me feel even lonelier. Maybe Paris's streets wouldn't have been as grey if you had been there with me.
I dreamed of you sometimes, you know? In that fancy room that smelled of Chanel, so scary when the moon reached the window. I dreamed of you. What were you up to at 2am? Was there a girl lying next to you and playing with your hair? Did you look at her the way you look at me? Did you dance with her, in that awkward way of yours?
I shouldn't have dreamed of you. You were torturing me and you didn't even know. Perhaps I was torturing you too.
