At that time he used to hold my hand whenever we’d sit in the grass at the park. His sweaty hands enclosed mine so tight, (like he did, many years ago) pressing my hand gently minute by minute, as though this gesture was the only thing he could do. I didn’t bother to look at him straight in the face – I felt that holding hands together was too much of a connection already, and eye contacts would be unnecessary. I didn’t even bother to lean on his shoulders, nor would he, for that matter. We knew for a fact that things like these were only real for the meantime, and holding on too much to these (more than what should be) could be fatal for the both of us.