Green

"I don't believe in God." You told me the night we met. You said it right before you invited me over. The way you said it though, it was like: "Heads up, I don't believe in God, but you want to come over? Spend the night?" That was the strange opening to a strange story. A short story. A word a day. One hundred and sixty nine days. And then it ended, just like that. Fluffy clouds. A picnic. An envelope. Some bad news. A bullet in the wrong place. The wrong desert. A boy in the wrong place. The wrong desert.
I lay awake that night, past the initial pain, nothing but a dull ache. I didn't know a lot about you. Your favorite color - green. Your favorite dessert - creme brulee. But that's just the stuff on the outside.
And I couldn't stop thinking about you not believing in God. I questioned my own faith that night.

I don't question it anymore. I just don't believe.