I see a blue Subaru and wonder if it's you. Just the other day, I doubled back to check. It wasn't you. It was at IKEA, where we walked the loop and stole lingonberry juice. Where you stared out the window, admiring your cute little Subaru. Just the other day, I saw a blue SUV with Christmas stickers down the side. It wasn't a Subaru. It stole the breath from my lungs. I remember the first time I saw yours, decorated in Halloween stickers down the side. That was the first night we kissed. That wasn't the first night I failed to tell you what you deserved to know. Tomorrow I will see a Subaru and think fondly of the time we shared. Today I see one and my chest pulls tight. I held your hand in that Subaru, I stared into your eyes, we showed each other our scars. I kissed you, then asked, what are you thinking about? If only you had told me. Maybe things would be different. If only I had told you. Maybe we could have worked it through. Right now, in the back seat of that Subaru, are there the blankets I stained with wine? God, I embarrassed myself around you. Like the time I struggled with chopsticks and you graciously brought me a fork instead. That time wasn't in your Subaru but my little hatchback. I really hoped you would think it's cool, or cute, or fun. That time you rode with me, why didn't I tell you? That time you rode with me, could I have saved you from myself? Now, none of that matters. Except when I see a blue Subaru. I think of you.