The car turned the corner. We were minutes from the lobby of the apartment where I lived.

It was close to midnight, after a rather enjoyable few hours when we watched three short plays.

I didn’t tell her about how I’d decided to allow something to slide out of my life.

I didn’t tell her about how this something is a passion of mine, an outlet of creative expression that has been left inert for years.

I didn’t tell her about the decision wasn’t made lightly; it was the result of a gradual decline.

I think it surprised her. She stopped the car at the lobby and we spent the next thirty minutes talking about this passion I’m letting go.

She tried to talk me out of it. I tried to talk her out of talking me out of it. My explanations skirted around the main issue. There was no desire or need to be explicit.

“My time has passed,” I said almost nonchalantly, sighed, turned away and looked out of the car window. I knew her gaze would fall on me. I had to avoid it.

A long pause.

A black cat scurried past the car.

A couple, holding hands, alighted from a taxi.

She broke the silence, repeating her argument that the aforementioned passion should be abandoned just because there was no “end game” in sight.

I smiled and reminded her again about how I felt my time has passed.

Later that night, she texted about how we needed to pray about “it”.

I could have replied to say I’ve decided.

But I left it as that.