I found this post written on February 14th:
You asked me over for dinner yesterday, oddly formal, awkward smiling. I said yes without a thought, surprised you’d bother to ask in advance when we spend so many evenings sat alone together. Friends by default. Comfortable in convenience.
And then I wondered whether you wanted it to be a date…
I contemplated cancelling. Thought of washing off the make up I’d put on earlier. Wearing something that looked less dressy than my dress.
You texted to ask for stock cubes and somehow that reassured me that all is as it was meant to be. Ingredients were missing.
I arrived late. But for a moment I stopped on the path, watching you stirring and chopping through the steamed up kitchen window. From a foot further away you looked like someone different.
I cried on the doorstep before you got as far as hello. You hung up my coat. I sunk down into my familiar spot on the sofa and sobbed out the things I can’t say. You held me as if a hug would make it okay, and nothing else would matter. For a moment it didn’t.
This, us, is what it is, it may never be more, but being loved is beautiful, magical. Thank you.