As I kissed him on the cheek and left the car, I could feel the tension of uncertanty and the comfortable heavy weight of sadness from my chest pulling me to the ground. He waited for me to get into the house, watching my fast, steady steps. I sighed, quietly closed the door so as not to wake up my parents, undressed, and sat on my bed, confused: sadness was the last emotion I had expected to feel after that night. The confusion was following me as a small blue helium balloon, always tied to my neck for the next few days, until I finally figured it out: what I felt was not my own grief, but his. Somehow, despite the fact that the intimacy we share is the least intimate bond I have ever experienced, our emotions, combined with the cheap wine I drank and the laughter we shared, mixed so well that I could no longer distinguish between them. That's why, for the next few days, I had to keep telling myself: 'His sadness, not mine,' every so often. His. Not mine.
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