There’s a new cinema that just opened. Just a short walk from the apartment. They’re always showing, I haven’t seen anything there though. I say it’s because I don’t have the time, but it wouldn’t really feel right without you.

I pass by it a couple of times, and I wonder how you’d react to it, probably jumping and squealing, pulling my arms because we just have to see what’s on. And I’d oblige each time, and then you’d laugh or cry or rant about a character.

I think of you often. And all the questions you used to ask me, I didn’t answer them then, but I answer every so often. When I pass by the abandoned building past the corner, I think yes, I would love you if you were a worm. When I pass by the station at Marina, I think I would pull the lever, even if it was just you there. When I walk by the school, I think truth is objective, and if it wasn’t it still would – even though I learnt that from you. When I drive over the bridge and see the open ocean, I think it would be the same ship. I would think of it the same way no matter how much it changed.

On Fridays like this, when I sit beside you and ponder your dilemmas, I think I’ve already seen a perfect world. You never thought any of my original answers to the dilemmas you posed to be absolute or correct. When I said a perfect world is one where money wasn’t required, you asked what would motivate men to work. When I said a world where there were no wars, you asked if that would include eradicating humans, who always start wars.

But now, I realize that the world was already perfect when you were in it.

When you posed me more questions than “what happens when we die”. When you explained why the film was so good. It was perfect then.