I always looked back when we parted ways. He never did. When he left me for two weeks banned from contact at his training camp, my eyes followed him as he disappeared into the masses of carbon copied boys in ugly yellow T-shirts. I kept expecting him to turn around, meet my pleading eyes one last time before his departure. I never knew eyes could plead. Our eyes never met. There is such a sentimental thing about looking back. It’s not being able to get enough of that person. It’s the need for a reaffirming connection before departure. Every time he would leave my car, I would flash my lights over and over again to make him turn around. When he left me in the city to return back home to the suburbs, he never turned around. When I broke both of our hearts, I watched his large back disappear into the sea of people, wondering if this was the last time I would see him. I kept expecting him to turn around, give me one last wave, or run back and give me one last kiss. One last glance. I always looked back when we parted ways. He never did.