When we decided that it had been too long and that we should meet, I carefully started preparing a package for you. A small poem, that book you always wanted but never found, an old photograph and a bar of chocolate for us to share. What would I wear and what would we talk about? The package still remains in my drawer waiting for the phone to ring again.

　　It was a rainy Sunday afternoon when we sat in my tiny hostel room, discussing capitalism and campus gossip with equal fervor. When it seemed as if those conversations could last forever and we would never tire of them. When Joni Mitchell sang "California" seven times on continuous play before we thought of getting out.

　　Then one day suddenly we were looking for each other. You were always somewhere else, doing something else and strangely enough so was I. Those new people I met on that trip and that junior guy who loved the same movies I do. That girl next door who took math lessons from you. My room was almost always locked and yours was no different. We seemed to have discovered a whole world outside of ourselves all of a sudden. The tragedy was we had also lost the world we had before.

　　Then came the rescue mission. The loud fights in the hostel wing, the long silences and the desperate angry notes. Frustration, anxiety and even love revealing itself in the ugliest possible ways. Then indifference, complacency and resignation. Calm, dispassionate discussions on how we could stay friends. The decision that we should always let the other know when we would be around. That's when I started leaving those yellow post-its on the door. Those yellow post-its which by the time I came back would have your coordinates that I never used. If we had all of them now, they would be telling this tale a lot better than I am now.

　　Back home, I still continue leaving those post-its to this day, hoping that someone will write their whereabouts on them as well.