Six years last Sunday. Six years since the first "I love you" in a castle's (alright, motel that looks like a castle with huge rugs and an actual coat of arms) underbelly, in the dark motel room in the underground parking where lonely, tortured bodies should be discovered instead of whispered giggles.
It feels like I should feel the years between us, the actual aging, the gained weight, the beginning creases on our foreheads, the stories told and retold.
But I don't.
It's still all new.
I still can't wait to see him on Saturdays. I still get a little lonely when the weekday begins.
His smile still surprises me.