Monday was one of those days where you wake an hour early, and lay beside the one you love and bask in delight at their being.
One of those days where chill winds and scorching sun run rings around one another.
One of those days where your colleagues insist that you break from work to indulge in cake and tequila shots.
One of those days where you race from the office and cross the river to work your second job: discussion and grammar and virgin mojitos in a quiet terraced garden.
One of those days where you take the wrong tram home, end up in Malostranska, and decide on a whim to cross Charles Bridge.
One of those days when despite the crowds, the portrait artists and pavement vendors, the violinists and prostrate beggars, a hush descends on the bridge as the sun lights clouds from underneath and heat rises from the cobbles, blurring the high-definition.
One of those days when you reach the church and the pipers play a fanfare and you smile and know not why.
One of those days when the souls that gave you your name are gathered in a dimly-lit room across the sea, huddled in bewilderment as the truth sinks in, and you’re too far away to feel their hurt until you get the call.
One of those days when you lie awake wondering how to mourn from a distance, when everything has changed and yet nothing really has.
One of those days when the best you can do is mourn the distance anew.