Single life is hard.
By now, I’ve known that very well. If I added up the time I’ve spent not single, it wouldn’t even amount to a year. So, considering the give or take twenty-something years I’ve spent on my own, single life should have grown on me already. Like a mole. Or a rash. Or atopic dermatitis – which, in fact, has.
Despite all that, I haven’t become used to it, not at all, not by far, not in the least bit.
You can’t believe how lucky you are to be the sole recipient of her affection. You can’t believe that she could see through months and months of unrequited longing disguised as professional strictness. You can’t believe you could risk not ever getting the chance to be this close to her by putting her down every chance you’d get.