Like every other person who has ever been in love, I like to think that my idea of love is unique to me, that my relationship is special (it is), and that no one has ever felt the way I do - although a big part of me hopes they have or do or will, eventually.
In bed, the kiss by Henri Toulouse-Lautrec
We’ve been trying to explain what love is to ourselves since the beginning of time. Collectively, through myth and song and art, and individually, through late nights spent waiting for a text back or fighting in the middle of the road; through journal pages filled with hopeful streams of consciousness and re-enacting conversations to your friends, word for word because you just need someone else to know how perfect it was.
I’ve done all of the above. I spent the first half of my twenties watching my friends fall
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