It’s 6 am on a Sunday. It’s raining, but the sun’s rays are still visible despite the dark clouds. The aroma of coffee wafts heavily throughout the house. You find your love sitting at the nook, book in hand, while ‘The 1975’ plays in the background, ever so lightly. And you can’t imagine any other way to spend a Sunday.

I find myself loving hard than I expect to and I’m not just saying “I’m in love with you”, but that I’m in love with the idea of being in love with someone like you.

Remember when you found yourself lying on the bathroom floor, face up towards the ceiling, tears streaming down your cheeks as ‘Back to black’ by Amy Winehouse blared in the background. And for some reason you couldn’t understand why you were crying. It wasn’t because of the song and it wasn’t because of the gloomy weather outside. You sent a message to a friend saying, “What’s wrong with me?” only for them to reply back with “Everything’s going to get better.” which you’ve probably heard for the twelfth time today. And then you realize that, that phrase is meaningless, nothing will ever get better if you aren’t the one making it better.

My favorite type of conversations are the ones that end up looking like stories.