I always felt like we abandoned her, like we said 'Thank you for introducing us, but we didn't work out, and now we are leaving you, too.' Her windy roads kept us bumping into each other in the backseat of Sam's car the night we met. Her university provided us a space to randomly run into each other under the palm trees where we talked for hours, our heavy books leaving marks on our arms. Her pink and purple skyline lit up our view as we had dinner on our first real date on Key Biscayne. Her muggy backyard studio apartment witnessed tearful fights as we slammed its doors. Her extravagant buildings became the setting for your graduation where I took as many pictures as possible of you, your mom and your brother to celebrate you. Her painted walls brought out my obsession and your distaste for art. Her airport housed many tearful goodbyes, followed by ecstatic hellos as you toured medical schools around the country every other weekend. Her restaurants celebrated our month anniversaries as we thought each one was even more important than the last. Her fire hydrants on a side road in South Beach saw our car die as we fought until 3AM about nonsense.
And two years after our bumpy ride, she was with you as you boarded a flight back to Trinidad. She was with me as I walked alone across the stage at my own graduation.
And now I visit her when I can, in between work engagements and family reunions. Her skyline lights up in technicolor when she sees me, but there is a hidden sadness in a few flickering lights that haunts me.