11 years my senior, his tongue tastes like coffee and he has soft lips. His hands are rough from carrying boxes and shaping clay and looking after his family, but he uses them confidently. We bond over shared frustrations, similar philosophies and traumatic experiences that while they were completely separate events, we recognize them (too well) in each other.

He moves through life as though he can't stop and if he sits for too long the past long while will catch up to him and he won't be able to catch his breath. He acts like there's no time to stop because there's too much to do, and in a way, he's right.

He worries about his chest hair; I worry if he loves me enough to make do with the parts of him I can't have. With all there is falling squarely on his shoulders, he's afraid to call me his and all that comes with agreeing to it. I can't get him to grasp that I have no interest in simply adding to a list of responsibilities. I use the word "partner" with precision.

Sometimes his eyes light up and his lips turn into a boyish smile, excitement and potential and the abandon that's reserved for young love flickers across his face. That's when I think about what could be if he was able to relax into me, into us, for a while and just choose me.

"We'll figure it out," he says, and I melt but I'm not sure we will because we haven't yet. Staying apart didn't work either. "I'll take what you can give me," he says, and I melt a bit at that offer too, but I'm not doing some kind of favour here.

I'm not going for scraps. I'm looking to build and I think we need a plan. But first we have to choose it.

12:19 a.m. - 2023-01-22