All those days that went by, leaving us alone together in that small room. We knew that, one day, that day would be the last day. We knew a day would come when we would walk out of that room together and then walk off, apart, alone; back to our separate lives and never see each other again, except – perhaps – across a crowded room where we would exchange brief, tentative, smiles of loss and regret before turning back to what our lives had since become.
There was always an urgency at the back of every moment we spent together, an unrecognised and unacknowledged understanding that these were stolen times; times taken out of our real lives. We knew, one day, the theft would be discovered and we would become fugitives from the lives we lived beyond that room.
We also knew that room was no more than a bolt-hole, a hideout; it was not a place where a new life could grow. Even if we managed to escape our old lives to build a new one together, we knew that it would not be in that room and that outside that room what we had would only ever, could only ever, crumble into dust in the harsh light of the outside world.
So, one day, when that final day came we were ready for it, we were expecting it, and we knew what to do as we kissed for one last time and stepped out through the door of that room, back into a world without each other.