I will always think of him as the boy with the peculiar, unexpected French accent. As windows open, curtains breezing in the wind, lying naked together on a bed, discussing all our great loves, that in truth may not have been that great. The comfort I felt in spilling my own self, of sharing intimacy in a rare, so unashamed talking of all the others we too would rather, or yet, would like to also be with. We walked in the rainy streets, untediously, talking about work and its frustrations, too self-absorbed with our own comforts to realize how far we've gained all we dreamed for.