November 1, 2024

There are popcorn kernels wedged between the dark gray cushions of my sofa from last night.

Yesterday, my partner and I had an early two-person Halloween celebration, joking that watching a trashy reality dating show was scarier than any horror movie. In the soft white glow of the TV in my small studio, we spread out the pieces of a New Yorker puzzle across the mahogany coffee table. Two autumn-scented candles flickered beside us, blending their warmth with the smell of freshly popped popcorn. Outside the window, as the cold night droned on, specks of rain danced beneath the yellow streetlights. Between buttery mouthfuls, exaggerated gasps at the ridiculous contestants on screen, and foraging for puzzle pieces like small furry animals, we laughed like carefree kids on a playground. This, I thought, is what love feels like.

There are traces of my partner everywhere in my apartment. In the square-sized bathroom, her blue cotton towel drapes over the silver rack next to mine, still damp from her shower. On the counter, her toothbrush, makeup remover, and a knotted hair tie sit side by side. Strands of her hair are scattered in every corner—how did one end up in the fridge? In the second drawer of my tiny, carpeted closet, there’s a single pair of her light blue socks with a silly pattern of Corgis on them. Over the summer, she left a black pair of sandals covered in sand on the shoe rack, and I loved coming home to put my sneakers next to them.

When my partner is at work, she’ll often call, out of the blue, just to have me on the line. Yesterday, we sang “Isn’t She Lovely” in high-pitched, nasally voices until our bellies hurt. We often slip into ridiculous British accents, quoting songs and unabashedly butchering the lyrics with confidence, blaming the artists for getting them wrong. Our laughter bubbles over and fills the spaces between us; hers is easy, warm, and infectious. In a little over half a year, we’ve become mirrors of each other, giggling over nonsensical inside jokes and our own language of shorthand ways to say I love you.

In the real world, we might seem a little crazy—maybe we are. But with us, it always makes sense.

Yesterday, as she propped the overfilled red plastic bowl of popcorn on her belly, pieces slipping between the cushions, I thought about how beautiful it is to exist in this sliver of time with her, loving her.

When we talked about moving in together, I knew I wouldn’t have it any other way—because home has always been wherever she is. We bend together like water in a river, softening in harmony with the currents. We weave through pebbles and tufts of grass, slipping through cracks in the mountainside — even when the river runs dry.

In this universe and every other, I would always choose to come home to her.