We took the curtains down and look at each other with yellowing faces. Hers much older than mine, and clearly wiser too, given that it wasn't painted with the kind of anxiety that seemed to be bursting through my temples.

She looked at me while I folded the pastel green curtains and put them in big shopping bags. Her room now felt larger, brighter and altogether impersonal. The books from her shelves were now in cardboard boxes in my room. The wooden artifacts that dotted her walls were now taken down, put away. The table no longer held grocery lists and phone bills. 

You must no go, I wanted to say. I can't not have you live next door. 

But I didn't say anything. I just stood there, feeling like a child. 

We sat around making half-hearted attempts to empty out her home and life into containers and bags. As the light from outside went down and the room grew darker, the naked bulb hanging from the ceiling made a large ominous circle on her floor. 

I hugged her before I left, but I still couldn't quite find my words. 

I know. She said. And you know that I know.