This is a little story I have about the number 8.
I was born on the 8th of October, so I’m bound to have a bit of a soft spot for it. Also, October happens to be the original 8th month from the Roman lunar calendar. Yup. I’ve read into this.
Also, let’s review the fact that the infinity symbol is basically the number 8 tipped on its side in a drunken manner ∞ ... something I always liked the thought of*
On the 18th of February (it counts, there’s an 8 in it) I entered Heathrow airport for the first time, completely sleep deprived, and awaited my flight to San Francisco. Significantly, California time is 8 hours behind. (Significant, but also a pain in the arse for jet lag, both literally and metaphorically.) But it was worth it, of course it was. I was finally going to be with the person I love. One long and sleepless flight later I arrive at the airport and - there he is.
My time in California with him was incredible, and I wasn’t ready to let it all go away when the time came. I just stood there in front of him and broke my heart. I adore him and by some miracle this beautiful person likes me too, even when I’m sobbing like an idiot while he hugs me and tells me he loves me.
I should have hugged him longer. Even if it was 8 seconds more - it would have counted.
Then 8 deep breaths when I stood alone in the airport at San Francisco after he left.
*When we first fell in love (without any intentional reference to the above) he called me his Forever Boy and the nickname pretty much stuck. (The whole spiel about the infinity sign is starting to make sense now, eh?)
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