I packed an overnight bag four times that week. I used it once. I think that’s good odds. He text me at 11.04pm on Tuesday, when he was leaving the Kings Head. He ask if I was still in Soho. I was still in Soho. I had been in Soho with friends since 7pm, and alone since 10.30pm. The same routine as the night before, without a text. I said I was ready to meet him whenever, left my full drink at the bar and ran to Oxford Circus. If I was late, he might leave. And, if he left, I would never see him again. It was a brief dying romance, this was my last shot at resuscitation. He didn’t smile when he saw me, maybe he was drunk. Or not drunk enough. I couldn’t tell nor did I really care. We commenced the underground journey. Oxford Circus to Bethnal Green. This was our journey. The same journey as the night we met, a few in between, and now this, the last I would do with him. I would think of him when I would catch that line, years later. He sat at the end of the bed, sweat on his back. He didn’t want to lie back down with me, I could tell. I asked him to pass my bag and I pulled out my toothbrush. He smirked, the idea of me being so predictably prepared was humorous. I wanted to cry. The next night I sat on my bedroom floor and wondered what top I should pack in case I needed a change of clothes for work the next day. I had a meeting, so it would have to be a smart one. I kept checking my phone. No text, but it wasn’t even 10pm yet. There was still time, he never usually texted before 11pm.