The red string of fate

You told me you loved me for the first time in Wales.

You were drunk, on more than just the beer. On life, on us.

You laughed as you said it in defeat, after I had finished yelling at you to just say it already. I was on my feet, making a scene as I so often do. Smiling from ear to ear, daring you to be brave.

You were afraid, you told me. Unsure of how much you could trust me with your heart as there had been others before you.

But don't you get it, yes, there were others before you but there has never been another you before.

There has never been another you, another me like this, another us. And there never will be.

I understand why you can't trust me I said, but that doesn't mean that I don't love you.

We went back to our van giddy and stupid, encased in our newly declared love. Your face between my legs, me screaming out your name before we both collapsed. Warm. Safe. Together.

You told me you loved me sober for the first time in Scotland.

Halfway through our road trip, with messy hair and smelling socks. Halfway through our sweaty mountain climbs, our sweaty hand holding, our sweaty cuddles.

Sinking into our single matress in the back of the van, in the dark, alone but together.

You rolled towards me, whispering 'shall I say something nice.'

I nod, as you push your face into my neck and whisper

'I love you baby'

I could have cried. Cried because you finally felt safe enough to tell me.

Finally trusted me enough to give your heart to me, unencumbered, unashamed and without condition.

You kissed my lips, my soul, as I quietly professed 'i love you too' around our smiling teeth.

It took you just over 1 year and 3 months to tell me you love me. In wales, in Scotland and now here, at our home.