two years

somebody can become part of your routine so gradually that an anniversary feels like discovering the routine has a date. #

Two years with Yuri today.

I don’t want to write one of those giant declarations that makes everybody reading feel like they’ve accidentally opened somebody’s private letter, but I also don’t want to pretend this isn’t important to me because pretending not to care is such a boring way to look sophisticated.

Two years.

He has known several versions of my hair, which should qualify him for public service. He has watched me obsess over school, finish school, panic about exams I was perfectly capable of passing, redesign this blog over and over, become Bambolina while insisting I wasn’t becoming Bambolina, listen to Britney and hardcore back-to-back, cry over things I later decided were stupid, become furious over things I still think were justified, and spend absurd amounts of time choosing between blue objects.

He gave me something small tonight. Thoughtful. Very him.

I used Angel before leaving.

He smelled it immediately.

`”Bambolina, you smell like your mother.”`

Two years.

Two entire years and the man has developed no survival instinct.

I stared at him.

He corrected himself.

`”You smell beautiful.”`

Better.

Too late, but better.

We went out because our anniversary landed on Friday, which is basically the universe organising our evening for us. At one point I looked at him and remembered December 2001 and had that strange double-image feeling where somebody is both exactly the same person and obviously not.

Neither am I.

That’s probably the point.

I love him.

There. One romantic sentence. Don’t get used to it.

Remember me, Eclipse.