it has always been the most massive realization to me when I remember who I married. the kid next door. the band shirt, studded belt, and skate-shoes wearing boy. next. door. the one with the civic that you could spot from a mile away due to the roaring sub woofers and neon blue interior lighting. the boy who straightened his two inch long curly hair and the boy I’d spoken to hardly ever before that first night. (I am convinced that if he had ever gotten a full sentence out in the beginning, I would have fallen for him unbelievably sooner.) the boy who called me “cute” via text message while we were discussing none other than the weather (and I was washed over with giddiness for a good while afterward.) the kid I only had 50 days to love on before we had to ultimately choose if we wanted one another or not. the kid who caught me by surprise & told me he loved me on his front porch. the kid who I found on a rock in the middle of the vast east china sea. the kid that I discovered in the most impossible of circumstances. that kid.

that kid is my husband.

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