It’s Sunday and the light is milky and the city quiet. We stay in bed for as long as we can, hearing the flatmates move around in the rooms below us. Daniel plays me new tracks he’s discovered whilst I’ve been in Sweden and I tell him all about weird exercises and tasks we’ve had at Hyper Island so far. It’s warm under the duvet and I feel so happy. We shower together but like always in London there is something wrong with the temperature and suddenly we are sprayed with icy water. I scream and you hug me. Then we get dressed and walk past dirty chicken shops and far from busy fruit vendors to a cafe for brunch. The waiter brings our cheese melts over before turning the vinyl over on the old record player. They only play weird music, but that’s alright because the place is weird and it kind of fits. Daniel reads some paper and we find three new restaurants and bars in the area we want to try out. But I won’t of course, because I don’t live here anymore. For now though, we pretend that I do and make up all kinds of plans, and I’m relieved that he doesn’t mind pretending with me. Danielle texts us in desperate need to ventilate her previous night’s chaos. She arrives half an hour later and joins us in our booth. In utter misery she tells us what happened after we left and I am gobsmacked. I can’t help but laugh though, because she is like our own indie film character, and weird shit will always happen to her. Let’s just say she’s a proper bad ass. We pay and head back into the core of Clapton. We pass Daniel’s stunning house and I wish I was living there with him. I have no idea how we get into it but a friend of ours used to date this Mormon girl who told him about how teenagers go around the no sex before marriage rule. One of the main things is called docking and when we tell Danielle what it means she dies. How does it finish, how long does it go on for?! As such we walk around, talking about weird cultures and facts whilst looking through denim shops and cafes turned record stores. In a street corner I say goodbye to her and she says that in one way she is relieved that I’m leaving because her nights always end in trouble when I’m around. But on the other hand I know she’ll miss me. We swing by his house to pick up my bag. I ignore why. On the hot streets we wait for the bus and when it arrives it’s almost empty so we get the front seat on the upper deck. The whole way into town he lies in my lap and I hold him. I wish you wouldn’t have to leave. I know, I wish for that all the fucking time. It takes us twice the time with the bus, but I wish it would last a lot longer. I’ve come to hate time but I refuse to feel sad now, not now, not yet. So when we get to Soho I suggest that we go celebrate whatever with a beer. And we do, because we are like dirty royalties when it comes to celebrating. For a sunny afternoon hour we kiss over the table and make each other laugh too loud for being in public. Just like normal. But sweet is always short, or some bullshit saying like that. Either way it is time for me to head to Heathrow and fly back to London. In the middle of five million rush hour tourists I kiss him goodbye again and again and again. I don’t get it, how much are you really suppose to cry when you’re 22.