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Two Days and Counting 2 days and counting. That's how long we had before he went back home to the other side of the world. We sat cuddling on my couch, vaguely taking in a Melissa McCarthy film that at least managed to lighten the mood with a few chuckles here and there. We both knew what we were really thinking about, though, and it wasn't the ‘normal lady turned international superspy’ storyline that was playing out on screen. We were never ‘together’, that's the weird thing. We met shortly after his visa renewal was called into doubt and then, just a few weeks later, he was summoned back home by his family. He didn't want to leave. I didn't want him to leave. But leave he did. While he was here, we existed in a peculiar state of affection. Not dating per se, but somehow more than just friends, anchored to each other by some forlorn idea of what could have been. But we knew it couldn't be. We knew that from the start. But sometimes that doesn't matter. Or at least, not enough to put you off. To be honest, if I had been offering advice to someone else in that situation, I probably would have suggested just keeping it strictly platonic. After all, it seems idiotic to send your heart sprinting off the starting line when you know there's a million-mile drop just around the next corner. But, I have always been terrible at heeding my own advice, so I sent my heart forth regardless, like a pulmonary lemming, edging slowly towards the inevitable edge.