20s · broody · ramble · twenties · Uncategorized


There’s been several times in my life when I thought I was in love. I’m not talking about love for my family or friends or Harry Potter. I mean actual love for another non-related human in a romantic sense.

I said I was in love when I was dating my first long term boyfriend. We were 15 and pretty smitten with each other.

I said I was in love again when I was “the other woman” in my first girl/girl relationship. It was exciting and turbulent.

I’ve been wrong every single time until now.

This wasn’t love at first sight. Our first face to face encounter was at my workplace. He came in to buy beer and I served him. Our second meeting involved me stumbling out of a taxi in a tiny red dress, looking at him and thinking “oh good, he’s as tall as he said he was!” I proceeded to get horrendously drunk and try to convince him to come back to mine at 2 in the morning to meet my rats, despite having work at 6am. It still wasn’t love on our second date (we always count this as date 1 and 1/2). He drove me around in his car to Bakewell and back and we chatted. He gave me my first ever bottle of smart water. Date 3 (or 2 and 1/2) was a meal at an Indian restaurant in town. He kept checking his smart watch which I found a little rude and the date had to end at 10pm because he had work. I was disgruntled because I’d worn a very low cut top and it hadn’t convinced him to skive off.

And then something changed for both of us. Neither of us know when or why, but suddenly dating other people wasn’t an option. He asked me out officially via text when he was drunk on a stag do in Dublin. We started seeing each other more and more; eventually we spent some time just being at home chatting rather than getting drunk. I remember this one night when I was supposed to be getting dropped off at mine – we ended up talking for over 3 hours and we told each other secrets we hadn’t told anyone else. I gave him puppy dog eyes until he agreed to let me sleepover. 

Now I’m laid in his bed, although I should technically call it our bed because I’ve only been “home” once in the past 3 weeks. I’m alone because he’s down south for work until Wednesday. I nearly cried infront his entire family yesterday when he left and I cried when I got back to the empty flat last night. I always find the first night the hardest and now I’m laid here for the second time, all I feel is a need for him to be next to me. He annoys me when he snores and he steals the covers and makes me jump when he touches/cuddles me in my sleep but it isn’t the same without him here. 

I’m a grown adult – well, most of the time – and I’m perfectly capable of managing without his physical presence but it feels like half of me is missing. I don’t feel like a whole person without him. 

I’ve never experienced this before. Sure I’ve missed people and wished they were there but this is so different. And that’s part of how I know this is it. He’s “the one”. 

I used to be super cynical of anyone who said l that but I get it now. All the terrible cheesy love songs make sense. I get why people would get married and commit forever. Something has clicked in my head and it’s never clicking off again.


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