"Sweetheart, you're going the wrong way."

I've been thinking of you a lot recently. How you like your tortellini stuffed with cheese, how you twirled me dizzy because you believed that you could teach my reluctant body salsa, how you left sweet notes by the door of our room, how we went on late night drives to nowhere because you needed to drive, how we pounded at Taco Bell's door past midnight for a $0.89 bean burrito.

I saw you too, at the airport the morning after your wedding -- I exhausted from a night of crying, you flushed pink from your first night with your husband. How would I have known that I would have bumped into you? Typically I was sending a forgotten international student off at the airport -- that was what I did that year with the car -- back and forth, back and forth -- I knew the 45 minute route between the airport and the college like the back of my hand. And that morning, as ironic fate would have it, I saw you.

I don't think you sensed how appalled I was to see you that morning. Though I saw you everyday for two years, that day was different, you were flying off, with your new husband, forever. And when you said, "xx, you should get married," and beamed in that way, a part of me died, and on the way back, I missed the exit and kept driving and driving, until my carload of international friends started yelling at me for going the wrong way.

It felt like life was going the wrong way, anyway.