The insomniac speaks

I only remember what we used to do when we were alone. She was a lovely cook, and the kitchen window in her apartment was broken, shielded by white blinds. She never asked the landlord to fix it. Did I miss something, sitting at the glass table, eating chicken adobo and other delicious homemade meals as she stood by me and kissed me on the cheek? I must have missed everything entirely, everything said and unspoken, everything given. I must have missed the way she wanted to watch old films in bed. Why did I refuse? Why did I say the most dreadful thing when I tried to leave her? “You have no self-esteem and I just don’t know how to make it better. I don’t know how to fix you.”