Two cups, not one.

If someone told me a year ago that the guy I nearly cancelled on would move into my home in October 2019, I wouldn’t have believed them.

At the end of a spree of bad dates, I wasn’t sure whether he wanted to see me again and he’s since told me he couldn’t work out whether I was interested in him.  What’s followed has been a fairly short and unassuming love affair.  Unlike the fairy stories of finding Prince Charming and being swept off my feet, our love story is more grounded; we both went out looking for love and found it in each other.  Being pragmatic, I’m sure either of us could quite as easily have fallen in love with somebody else, but we have found a way into each others’ lives and we’re entwining our lives further by moving in together.

He’s lived here for a whole three weeks, most of which I’ve been in hospital; certainly away from Brighton.  This weekend has been the first weekend of sleepovers living under one roof.  And it’s the little things that have had the biggest impact.  There isn’t the looming sense there used to be of us needing to go home to our respective houses to collect clothes, put a wash on and keep housemates happy.  Whilst getting ready in my room I don’t expect him to come upstairs and ask me to hurry up – he’s downstairs, in his room, doing his own thing.  And it’s the making of two cups of tea, not one.

Over the coming weeks and months, I have no doubt there will be arguments, compromises and closed doors.  There will be money discussions, whinges about the washing up and complaints about movie selections.  But I know there will also be plenty of giggles, kisses and cuddles.  And every morning, there will be two cups of tea, not one.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.

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