Five.

There was this afternoon earlier this year, where I looked at you and realised you’d been finishing my sentences all day. It wasn’t some ploy to annoy me (although you know how well that would work haha) but it was rather a sign of how very accustomed you’ve become to the sometimes – what others may find unpredictable – sentences that ramble out of my mouth.

When we went to see the house a few weeks ago and you seemed so shocked to find that I loved it, I realised too that, in some respects, I still surprise you. The look of confused relief on your face will probably make me giggle internally for the next million years. 

That’s the thing about you and I though. We’ve got this thing we’ve been doing for a very long time, and yet it’s never ever really settled down. Sure, this is as settled as we’ve probably ever been, as individuals yet, every now and then, one or both of us will shake it up a little. Sometimes, it’ll be both of us.

And that’s why, now that we’ve rolled around to this date, our five year anniversary, we’re not spooking each other with surprise hotel trips or funny fiascos for one-night stops in cities not within our postal code range. Instead, our shakeups are done together and we’ll be moving this week, into a new home that signifies a total shakeup of every dance step we’ve done over the past years. Like that time you danced with me outside a restaurant while we waited for takeout, and I knew then that I actually won some sort of life lottery. 

There have been a lot of dance steps. Some of them we had no clue how to start. Some of them I’d stand on your toes and you’d wince. Some of them, you’d start before I was ready, and I’d still be trying to catch up while you wondered what the heck I was doing. But somewhere, in the middle of the too-fast tune or the terribly slow melody, we’d figure out our fumbles and carry on. 

That’s the thing about us – we figure out our fumbles and carry on. After five years of figuring out our fumbles, one would think we’d be dab hands at them but, life always does enjoy surprising us. And, when we figure out those fumbles, we learn something new. So now, when I trip over your feet or your elbow accidentally pokes my eyeball,  I smile. We’re still learning, and I like it that way.

You stick by me when I cannot stand my own self. Sometimes I deeply wonder why the heck you do that, especially when I’m about 12 seconds away from exploding into a blaze of fireworks and noxious gases. Sometimes I don’t know why you do it, or how you do it, but you do. I’m not the easiest person to live with, and I hate the way I let the world in too often, but you’ve enabled me to learn a level of self-preservation that, sometimes, on the horrible days, I can laugh the worst off. Thank you for that. Being reinforced by a perspective that is not wallowing (my go-to state for most of life so far) helps. More than you know.

Oh, here comes a lol.

When we first started dating, I had my well-worn copy of He’s Just Not That Into You on my bedside table. And it bugged the living crap out of you. You’d laugh at me for it, use it as a talking point and then, once, very sweetly, let me know that the book’s title was the opposite of you. You didn’t need to tell me then, I knew. But it still counted for me, so much, that you said it (and then desperately scrabbled through the book to try and figure out what gobbledeegook was written on those pages). I did need that book, in that time of my life, but it’s safely packed away now. I know, I packed it away when we started sticking things into boxes for the new house and, when I pulled it off the bookshelf, I laughed at it. That’s the thing about you – you can make me laugh on even the most terrible of days, and at the most horrible of situations. Thank you. 

After five years of making me laugh, I can’t help but look with the same sense of wonder and astonishment as I wore that 8 December night with the Tupperware and the baked goods. 

And while we’re doing nothing flashy this year, the greatest mark for me, on this anniversary, is that – at some point – you’re going to look at me over the boxes and life being packed up in an array, and crack a joke that’s on point and I’ll cackle.

You’re my second favourite human, and my first favourite adult. And the best part of that sentence is that I know it’s the same for you, with me. Thank you for five years of all this funny. I love you to pieces. Pass the remotes. Would you like (nudi)tea?

Love,

Me