ours

I wrote a long post about what happened, but that’s not what’s important—it never has been.

Yesterday the English boy left for good and my heart aches more than I thought it would.

With him I felt safe at a time when I was afraid of my own shadow, beautiful when I was scraped and scarred, and looked after when I felt ready to give up and throw in my travel towel.

It didn’t occur to me until after he told me he thought continuing this would be impractical, until after we fought, until after the tears came and I started missing his presence, but now I wonder: if what we had wasn’t love—however short and messy and imperfect and improbable—then what is?

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