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“I remembered another evening, when I caught him standing outside on the porch staring out at the deserted quadrangle. It had just snowed and the place couldn't have looked more peaceful or more timeless. I told him not to worry and promised I'd shovel the snow in the morning. "It's not that," he said. I knew it wasn't. He put his arm on my shoulder, which he never did, because he wasn't the touchy-feely sort. "I'm looking at all this and I'm thinking that one day I won't be here to see it and I know I'll miss it, even if I won't have a heartbeat to miss anything. I miss it now for the-days-when, the way I miss places I've never traveled to or things I've never done." "What things that you've never done?" "You're young and you're very handsome how could you possibly understand?" He removed his arm. He lived in a future that wouldn't be his to live in and longed for a past that hadn't been his either. There was no turning back and no going forward. I felt for him.” — André Aciman