I half-waited for us to start arguing about who was the asshole that kept squeezing the toothpaste from the middle up instead from the end.
We never did have that argument.
It turns out that we both prefer different brands of toothpaste – you like Sensodyne, and I, Colgate. I half-waited for us to start arguing about how you always don’t put the toilet seat down and how I always don’t put it up but we never did. Turns out, we don’t argue about a lot of things. Our habits are different, our ideals are sometimes polarised and the way we look at life are disparate. Still, we find ourselves in each other’s arms at the end of each day, you holding me tight from the bristles of life and I, for some unknown reasons, piping you with happiness that makes your face beam.
My masochistic side wonders if this kind of love works. After all, the artistic side of me lusts for the pain and the drama, the grief and the tragedy; they are what spur me to produce theatrical works. Now, I am silent. I bask in contentment and distraction. I am doodling thoughts that make my brain smiles, my hand tingles with pleasure as they seek you for assurance and your hugs are now my favourite things in this world.
I am slowly unlearning all I that I knew. My desire to know the ending before it begins is now contained to books and movies. Our story is a daily affair that I wake up looking forward to and it doesn’t really matter if this kind of love works next month, next year or ten years down the road. After all, what matters to me is making it work now – and as we all know, the nows will eventually become thens. And this is already the ending I am looking for.