Letters I Can No Longer Send To You - Part 4

If the world had not shifted from beneath us, we would have been together for seven years in a week's time. And in a month, you would have thrown your seventh tantrum about the birthday gift I would have given you. But you'd have loved it, and refused to part with it. I would have had enough of it by now, and probably would have held off on giving you the gift that I'd planned so meticulously till you promised to accept it with grace.

It was a one of those leather tech kits and table layouts you liked and Luffy's cosplay, in case you ever read this. 

The month would have continued. We would have spent our late evenings watching something on the laptop and ordering from outside. I'd continue to hope that one of these days, you'd surprise me by learning to cook my favourite meal. It was a hope that I'm slowly learning to let go off, because I'm not entirely sure you even know my favourite meal any more.

And then, our nights would draped in the boisterous hum of the AC. You'd have told me how much I meant to you. I'd have told you how much I love you. In that moment, I'd have forgotten all the little pangs of anger I'd felt about you not planning a romantic candlelit dinner for the anniversary. Without thinking, I'd have pulled you into an embrace and pressed the bridge of your nose because you'd definitely have a headache by this time in the night. We'd talk about the nothings that made up the doldrums of our lives, and wonder how much time we'd get to sleep if we stayed up talking just a little longer.

We'd live this script out, every Tuesday and Friday night. Like a dress rehearsal for a play that would someday see the shining lights of permanence. 

And then one day, we wouldn't. Because the world has shifted from beneath us, and we are no longer together for seven years.