You could probably send my father a letter of complaint regarding the fact I didn't carve our first touch in my memory like most other half-sentimental things I keep bringing up to surprise you. If I ever expected to be liked—just in the abstract, not necessarily by you—I would try and treat every interaction with a male as the dawning of a new budding thing. 

In our bunker, most things were below—the sea level, the dim lights, the crooked chair beds, and the expectations of what the city would look like after the shelling. And in that downing, you kept trying to pick me up, "Get up, let's count the people, close that rusty door, then take a trip to the mall where a bomb will land just 24 hours from now, though none of us know it yet." 

It used to be just me escaping my friend's grip to crawl down the spider's lair. But when I stepped my foot inside the cave, yours blocked the way. I looked up. You gave me a nod. And I felt the urge to be weak, peeping from behind like the first lady I always wanted to be. You kept crawling at full speed until I heard the subsequent reverberations of a metal beam hitting the crown of your head. 

"I think I need help," you said, I assume, feeling the urge to be vulnerable in return. 

Ascending the stairs, I savored the intimacy of sharing a breath of fresh air with you for the first time. So began the long list of our firsts. The second was the first fear. Suddenly, I felt like a trout, terrified of air inflating my dainty lungs with the horrors of the world above my waters. 

You're in my room, above my sink, head down. I am your dust-cleaner, your blood-wiper… your nobody you met just a few war-eternities ago. Are you looking at my shoes? Would you dust them for me how I'd lick yours clean? 

"You're OK, don't play a fallen soldier," or fall in my arms if you do—I leave some parts out of the dialogue. 

Handling your hair for a bit too long, pretending to be a thorough nurse. Feeling your hands on my shoulders when you move me out of the way. Sticking around, watching you devour canned tuna and rye bread. Could I be any closer? When they decide for me it's time to leave, you blinking me goodbye with no touch seems insufficient now. 

"So, this is it? You're leaving?"

"I guess," I reply without nodding. Please, let me stay. 

"Maybe I should move around, go home, meet the occupants. What do you think?" "I think it's bullshit. Worst thing I've heard in a while." 

"Yeah. Well… I don't want to be left alone." 

Ask me to stay. Better yet, let's go together. Should I?.. No. I mean, I know there's a chance he might die if he stays. But are we good enough friends for me to not feel embarrassed to offer? My social anxiety hasn't killed anyone before. This could be a novelty. 

"Should I come with y—" 

"Yes," before you have a chance to finish. Good job, not awkward at all. "Go get your things. I'm leaving now. Find me at the train station. I promise to wait." 

It was twilight when I saw you again. The pilgrimage was screaming, throwing clothes in the air to fit inside a train to Warsaw. From the outside, it sounded like the Titanic had hit the iceberg. That's when the sirens started bailing. 

Should we go to the underground? Should we wait for our train? We sit tight under the walls, cover our heads from the glass and wait for the bombs, surrendered. Your leg is touching mine. I cover my ears and assume my heartbeat matches yours. 

When the world didn't end, and I opened my eyes, I noticed yours were a little bluer than usual. You let a tear out. I'm jealous. Pathetic is the new luxury. 

I could hear the missile strikes haunting us through my desperate attempts to snooze on the train. Leaning on my shoulder, you told me quitting professional sport numbed you, and now your nerves are falling apart. The nicotine сontent of as much as a cigarette could kill your already decaying feet. Soon, they stepped into the home where we bruised each other. 

Some days are worse than others. You cook, I wash the dishes. You get on top of me and push the nicotine-free smoke out of your lungs and into my face. Your head on my belly, your palm caressing my hip. We argue. You reach for my hand in your sleep. You call me sick. I hold you tighter as you shake in your REM. I say you lack logical thinking. I kiss your shoulders. I urge you to move forward. You drag behind in your excuses. I lock you in the toilet. You ask if I give this look to all of my friends. We touch lips for six hours straight. You pull your phone out to go on Tinder to see who else is on dating apps in the middle of the war.

I say I'm struggling to pay your past no mind. You suggest removing yourself from my life and granting me the relief of being away from someone so questionable. I protest. I wish I could have grabbed your hand, pulled you in, made you feel seen, told you that the tip of your nose is where my priorities lie. You escape to the shower instead. 

I'm listening to the running water until it goes off. It's been 20 minutes of this silence, you behind the wall. Breaking the door down to find you naked on the floor, half alive, sobbing, head occupied with a plan to have no more plans. It's unbearable—the frustration of seeing someone else running their hands through your hair while I'm hiding behind the door, afraid to trigger you further. Touch-deprived, I run away, putting a cigarette in my mouth, secretly hoping it kills my legs too before I am too far gone. 

A sleepless night, watching you through the wall. It's all about adapting, huh? I developed X-ray vision to make sure you don't run away to the war before the dawning light touches your left cheek. 

We're on the bench that I'll soon deem ours. The doves kissing in front of us. I pull out a card that reads, "Thank you for being where we need you most." Right here. Next to me. You take a few moments to pick yourself up, "I'm trying to find the proper words. I want you to know that this is a critical checkpoint in my game." 

You breathe in my face. I don't mind. 

You scratch your idols out on my hand, leaving grazes, branding me like a horse. I don't mind. 

You grab my wrists. I'm scared that if you check my pulse, a professional runner like you would need no more than five seconds to know how I feel. Should I mind? 

You tell me how every building's first level doesn't match the rest. I suggest we should build a brand new city a floor up. You stop to look at me for a quick second before continuing to describe most things as eclectic as long as they don't fit your idea of perfect. I know you'd be the first to dance to the music of the time. You are rarely afraid to look silly, which is lovely until your every second joke becomes worse than average. 

Am I here only to be a model for how you depict pretty on film? Someone pliable could work better. Maybe they'd smile while I'm frowning at what Mitski's whispering in my ear. You're growing tired of me. Sorry you don't want my touch. It's not that you don't want me. It's just that you fell in love with the war in me, and nobody told you that one day it was bound to end. I just hope ma petite mort comes first to leave a pearl in your hand so you can roll it around every night just to watch it glow.

"I want you to tell me you rushed." 

"Why?" 

"If you hurt my very being, I will start to pick things up in a hopeless place." 

In my conversations with the Big Guy, I pray that one of these days, it gets easier to look at you and escape the thought of how your moles change shape when you smile. 

This time, stretched out in a thin line, seems playfully sad. We're feeding on each other's leftovers. I know our codependency's ending. You can barely see my face in the gloaming, but I'm the only one worried about the lonely dawn. We drain each other, pretending it's fine, but it's apparent that tomorrow I'll get the last of you I'll ever have. 

I press two fingers to my lips, then put them down on our bench, wishing to find your shoulder instead.