I saw your name on an old hotel reservation today. It was from the trip we took three years ago, the one where we got lost because neither of us wanted to admit that we had no idea where we were going. We ended up walking for almost an hour before finding the hotel, and you were angry until I bought you ice cream. I smiled when I remembered it. Then I realized something strange: I don't want that trip back anymore. I don't even want you back. I just wish I could visit that version of myself for five minutes and tell him to slow down. To look at you a little longer. To understand that happiness doesn't always announce itself while it is happening.