Scabs.

I'll be blunt. I don't want to be your wound any more than you want to be mine. In being somebody's wound, we hurt.

Our paths have already crossed. You could try and forget, but neither of us can uncross them. It is fact. Hard fact.

On my part, I know that I shan't forget if I lived a hundred more years.

On yours, it's hard to tell. You know (yes, you do, you have proof) that I would not try and talk you out of what makes you happy.

You know (yes, you do) that I've never spoke a word to your ear for my own sake, but yours. Even if the outcome was something against my deepest desires.

You know that I would have you at my side, any which way that you would.

Any.

Let me stop being a wound. I'm here, calling from afar.

We make things more complicated than they have to be.

It should be easy for you. Its just a train ticket. Bring him, if you like. I'd shake hands and tell him how envious he makes others.