If we took photos the same day each year, one date in August, or March, or July, would the crease in your forehead deepen like a timelapse video, and your eye colour fade, your sclera look sticky the longer we left? What else would we learn, besides that we were almost together, but it took ten years of skirting photographs, sitting one seat off the other, speaking online alternate months if there was something to say. And I’d invent things, but lies are all in delivery and, even typed, mine wobble, are the bridge that shouldn’t swing but does.
Our history is not the sort of thing you compile into a line like, “We poked on Facebook,” or, “We met on Match,” or, “We were on the same bus once.” All I can say is, “I made decisions. I re-made them. We saw the Star Wars re-release together and dated more than twice. Saw Radiohead. Slept in hostels. Moved in then out then in. I hope we’re not a series of snapshots, near misses, catalogued in a book, designed to make you cry on screen. I want a fatter history than that.”