September, 2002.

These were the small moments the two of you cherished the most, even if it meant lying on the hardwood floor of Paul’s apartment, a cigarette slowly burning between your fingers. Sure, you could be doing anything else you damn well wanted, but this felt right.

Paul lay on the floor, cigarette clutched between two fingers, shirtless, watching you move around the apartment in nothing but your underwear. Your small feet moved effortlessly, almost dancing, as his song — his sound — played on the radio. He should have been there with you, dancing along, maybe even crying to the sound of his band’s debut album, Interpol’s, now the newest hit in the city. But he didn’t move. He liked where he was — watching, a quiet smile resting at the corner of his lips.

It was sweet, almost endearing, to see you dancing to his voice while New York carried on beyond the window in front of you.

“Oh, c’mon,” he tsked, laughing to himself. “Get back here.”