Now, sitting in the apartment we spent so much time in—an apartment I’ve never taken another woman besides my sister back to, I realize I should have told her that. That she was the only one here. The only woman I’ve made dinner for. The only woman I bought expensive art for. The only woman to show me what life was missing and crave it. I should have told her the ways she is special. That we were special. That there would be no matching. That it was us, her and me, from now on. For real. I fucked up. I need my plan. But I also can’t rush it.
