I knew a person who is really good at making homes out of other people. He's not an architect, although his field of study sort of concerns elements of architecture, in a sense. He also doesn't make homes for living. I don't know how he does it, but next thing I know, there we were late at night, in a rather deserted parking lot somewhere, me, somehow sitting on the driver's seat and him next to me, splurging out shambles of words, pouring my heart out - something I have quite forgotten how to do, lately. He said his consolation through silence, and his warm hands rubbing the back of my neck. Moments later as I was calming down, we went outside again, hand in hand, passing by a flower shop on our way out and coming back to the car with a bouquet in my hands.
I miss him sometimes, but I hope he doesn't miss me.