two years?

time is rude when it suddenly presents receipts. #

Next Friday is December 5.

Two years with Yuri.

Two.

That doesn’t sound possible because parts of our relationship still feel brand new, while other parts feel so normal I can’t remember what occupied the space before them. He knows the tea/biscuit ritual. He knows which look means I hate what I’m wearing and which look means I hate my hair. He knows that `”I’m ready”` on the phone means I have begun considering readiness as a concept. He knows when I stop speaking because the music has become interesting. He knows when I’m genuinely angry about something online and when I’m only enjoying complaining.

Two years.

We went out tonight and I kept thinking about it.

Didn’t tell him.

Now he can read it here.

Ha.

Remember me, Eclipse.