We have been together for 2 and a half years, which seems minimal in the scheme of things, but has felt like a glorious lifetime for me.

This is the first relationship I am proud to be in.

We got off to a rocky start, as many millennial relationships seem to these days (are we dating? Are we exclusive? Are you my boyfriend?), but after nine or so months of limbo and keeping things casual we became a we.

Since then, you’ve moved towns so we could live together, and we’ve now moved out to the beach. We’ve grown as individuals and as a couple.

I used to not be sure. I was so wary, simply not believing that it would last. I liked you so long ago that I had given up hope. You were just a crush in high school. A cute face to reminisce on during daydreams of uniforms and homework and underage drinking.

And then, that night, fate was on our side. You still laugh when I tell people the story. “It wasn’t fate. Fate’s not real,” you always remind me. I wholeheartedly disagree. Because if I’d made one slightly different decision that night I never would’ve seen you, and we never would’ve been what we are today.

It is a relief, to be in a loving relationship this early on.

For many of my teenage years, I fretted that I would never find that illustrious partnership where things were just good. No violence, no drama, no ignored calls, just plain good.

And yet, here we are, living together, loving one another, with our biggest hurdle being when we’ll eventually move down south (I am ready; you, not so much). Sure, we still bicker about cleaning and stress about silly things but we’re good. Really good. The best we’ve been, perhaps.

I think a lot of that comes down to us both growing the hell up. We’ve learnt the true meaning of respect and beyond that, respecting our differences. It took a long time for us to adjust to the other’s ways of thinking and doing, but I think that’s just because we’re so different.

You crave the quiet life. You like your plants and your games and reading. You adventure, but you like to save. You’re rarely the first one to make plans, although you’ve gotten a lot better at blindly going along with mine. You are incredibly sweet and kind, and probably love our cats more than you love me, but that’s what I adore about you. You’re a good person, through and through.

You don’t buy into gossip or drama and you do your best to avoid reality TV and social media. Yet you always know what’s going on in the world, and have trivia about the strangest of things. It’s great. I feel like I’m always learning with you.

I on the other hand, live for experiences. I love to travel, and see new things, and see all the bands I love live at festivals and concerts. Crowds don’t bother me, and neither does asking for weird variations at restaurants or speaking up when things aren’t okay. I blabber on about my feelings like there’s no tomorrow, and am happy to share what’s on mind.

I’m a writer, so words flow naturally to me. You, not so much. But you’re getting better. You’re opening up. And that’s all I can ask for.

Sometimes I lay awake at night just looking at you. My chest aches with love and I fear ever losing you. I don’t know how I’d cope. I’d probably just give up on love, to be honest. Because when you find something this good; this pure and happy and honest, you know it’s really fucking rare.

I’m writing this today because I used to journal a lot before we got together. I’d scribble down my thoughts and woes and worries and would wonder if we’d ever actually be boyfriend and girlfriend. Now that things are solid, and easy, I rarely write a word.

So here it is, a page of our relationship, immortalised on the internet forever. No complaints, just love.

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February 11, 2019

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