Henry calls me at 2 AM, surprisingly sober (or so it sounds). "You need to come back to Paris" he says, I immediately know that he's right. Not because he tells me to or by the tone of his voice, but because he's still more than just a memory. For too long I've thought of him as something peripheral, ignoring too many of his calls and communicating in single-sentence text messages. He doesn't deserve it, and maybe I no longer deserve him. In a little while I'll know.