It was not my home.
It was not yours.
The city was a new playground for us — a fresh canvas upon which we could paint our own experiences without the traces of the past muddling our present.
We were unknown to each other. Unknown to the city. Unknown to the future.
We made every inch of that city our own. We ran to catch subways and declared the corner of the main station our home-base. We’d meet for lunch and just wish for time to stand still. We’d rush and hope that the obligations of life would just let us be. If only for a minute. If only for one more kiss.
We knew each minute passing was working against us. Our time together was finite. Finite and rarely spoken of.
We dodged that truth like we dodged the traffic in the main square.
It was too painful a truth.
As with all truths, they eventually demand to make themselves known.
They come barreling at your like a freight train. Insistent to remind you that it was all too good to be true — nothing this good has ever lasted for you. Why should it now?
Time and truth, they grabbed our things and kicked us out of our new city and we gave in. We were too weak to fight. Too heartsick to refute.
In a week you will be gone. And not long after I will be, too. — And we do not know when fate will allow us to cross paths again. (I pray to God every night that it will be soon.)
But as I told you, as we held each other before saying goodbye;
We’ll always have Munich.
which we may not always call home,
but it will forever be ours.