You pointed at the burnt-orange building, "That was it, that was the place where I first loved."
I almost cried at that, here I was so focused on imagining our lives intertwined together that I forgot the fact that your life had been tangled in a mess that I do not wish to unravel. I had momentarily forgotten that you had already had your own share of envisioning a shared life with someone else, someone that you could love, someone that you did love.
I did not dare to ask if that building was the first place where you fell in love, or made love to, or even being told that you were loved. I couldn't bring myself to inquire because I knew whatever the answer that would come out of your mouth wouldn't make me happy in any way.
So I stayed silent, inactively persuading you to continue to tell more of your stories in order to be awed by the history of you. For the most part, I wanted to hear how you led your life, especially since you had almost a decade ahead of me.
You rambled on, decidedly not explaining further about the history behind that burnt-orange building. And I had never been masochist enough to ask further. I had already been crushed by the realization that I could never ignite that same passion when you pointed at that burnt-orange building, I could never inspire feelings so strong that you could condemn and worship a building in the same breath.