Sometimes I would open my eyes when we were kissing, I would watch him and I could see it. I could actually see love—not words, not an emotion, not an abstract concept or a subjective state of mind, but a living, breathing thing.
I’ve felt basically lucky ever since, almost every day of my life. That’s something else love should make you feel. It should make you feel fortunate. It will be made clear to you in a stray gesture, the line of a throat. Something in the hands. There may or may not be any music playing. But there will be a certain velocity of the spirit, a sensation of dropping through clear space unimpeded, and you think, this is the one. I found you.
I don’t know what comes next. I can’t know, until I’ve walked the road I’ve chosen. I don’t have a plan, and there is no map for this. It’s terrifying, but there’s a spark of exhilaration that gives me hope that the choice I just made could turn out to be right and this feels infinitely better than the weight of regret.
I didn’t want to be in love with you. I didn’t want to believe in love at all. It’s never happened to me before. And to be perfectly frank, I’m still not entirely happy about the whole thing. I think it’s going to be exhausting.
You don’t ever really let go, though. You don’t stop. You don’t stop hurting, you don’t stop loving. It doesn’t go away, you just keep living and eventually things get pushed into the background of your life so it’s not consuming you every day. And then one day you know you’re okay. It still hurts, you still miss that person. And yeah, you forget the details. The way she smelled, the way her mouth tasted, how her skin felt, the sound of her voice. It’s almost like a different life, a different person that loved her, was with her. But on a day-to-day level, you know you’re okay. Sort of.