Seven. It’s a prime number. Is that important? It’s odd. Is that? In some cultures it’s lucky. It has a nice, round, feel. It is the number of years since you left.
It feels like a point to turn around, in that roundness. In some ways I can pick any point, hold it stationary, have all else revolve around it. Pick that point as I (or you) then; we have never moved, everything else spinning in chaotic dance around us. And I have never left your side; for in that dance you cannot be gone away. Yet, somehow, you are.
The number doesn’t matter. I still love you.