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I've spent so many nights in hotel rooms like that with you that the room itself has a connection to you. On the drive to meet someone, I caught myself imagining that it was you, the version I fell in love with. I would have been flying sky high, not just looking forward to a fun repeat experience.
Instead I walked into the same kind of room with someone else. She's beautiful, and the evening was fun and pleasant. But I was in my head, comparing, watching myself do things well while part of me stood at the door, missing us.
It wasn't really about this person I'd say. The room held a feeling that didn't belong to this moment. Maybe that's what grief does; a familiar setting, a different person, and a low ache for what used to happen there. An absence.
I can't have you back, the risks are not even reaching the math stage of pros and cons. I really miss who you were at the start, and a hotel room turned out to be a catalyst.
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