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It wasn’t about firsts. Every moment mattered. Every touch. Every word. It was selfish to think of our lives as nothing more than an endless series of giving and taking. It implied we were, more or less, just moving from one moment to the next with no meaning.
I, nor anyone else, shouldn’t rely on another human to be a measure of self-worth and success.
“I think love—the good kind—holds an equal mix of wonder and familiarity. That feeling like you know someone, yet you also know parts of them are still a mystery that you can’t wait to slowly discover. If there’s no wonder, I think the love can die. If there’s no familiarity, I think the love already feels dead. If I were the one marrying you, I would be bothered more than I am. But you chose her.”
It was one thing to hear someone tell you they love you. It was something entirely different, infinitely more special to hear them say the words to someone else like it was a three-word explanation for their existence. I love her. I was the luckiest her in the world.
