She was lazy Sunday afternoons spent on art museums, she was chill Friday nights on Spoken Word poetry. We met under peculiar circumstances, and we almost never did. We’ve never been affectionate towards each other, perhaps because we respected the rule of never touching masterpieces. We made up for awkward silences, filling the air with enthusiasm over our crushes. We had a silent agreement never to mention all the promises we’ve already broken. She was a metaphor caged around expectations on things she never loved. She was an explorer, discovering new forms of art to delve herself into. She was, however, too temporary. She loves photography one day, and film making the next. And in the dark silence, under the moonlight, we talked under hushed voices, too afraid to wake up the monsters we’ve both come to terms with. I was her confidante, and until now, I have no idea why.