Everything comes and goes, marked by lovers and styles of clothes.

Strolling around the Village recently, it struck me how so many of my newest (and fondest) memories of this place are tied to XY. So many of my most recent and strongest impressions of so much of what makes up life in this city—this city I’ve called my home for, god, almost eleven years now—all of a sudden involve this person who has been a part of my life for less than one. And that’s...terrifying. In a way, I wish my memories were all my own.

But then they wouldn’t be the memories they are, I suppose.

And that’s...incredible. God, when I think about the things we’ve done together in that time, the things we’ve experienced, the things we’ve said and felt and navigated and explored, it seems hard to believe. And for once, I’m determined not to let my fear of loss discount the happiness associated with that which has been gained—however temporary it may or may not be. (Actually, I think of it less as a “fear of” loss and more as the “knowledge of its ultimate inevitability,” but I digress.) For once, I don’t want to allow the realities of misery and hopelessness to temper the joy of caring about someone and being cared about in turn. Joy is hard work for me. But I’m making progress, and realizing that it’s worth the effort.

I love you, XY.