“You don’t get it,” she said. “But I know exactly what you mean,” I thought.

It took you a few months to go from “You’re the best part of my day” to “You’re my day.” But it happened to me way before. I let that addiction engulf me before I let our bodies get habitual to each other.

Routine as a person— I look back and reminisce about the coffees, the cigarettes, the endless stories, the “look,” and the pauses on the streets so that she can breathe.

“Okay, pause. Breeeeeaaaathe.” That’s my routine. Bringing a full water bottle to her and asking her to drink it, that’s my routine. Losing my patience while she’s taking a bath but allowing her to not hurry up just for me— That’s my routine.

I never thought of the physical discomfort because I never cared about what’s happening to my body anyway. I think of the discomfort of my heart. I think of that routine of making sure she’s okay. I don’t need to make sure she’s happy all the time. I just need her to exist, in whatever shape or form. So I furtively force her to eat more. I reward her with kisses if she eats well and drinks enough water. I become her fuel.

There hasn’t been a point in my life where I have craved monotony. But good lord will I take the monotony right now— Give me those (not so) timely coffees, give me those 2 more minutes, give me those shared cigarette breaks, give me those random naps during the day, give me those bookstore visits, give me those late lunches, give me those dog sightings, and give me those breathing pauses so that she can breathe life back into me.

I guess it’s not monotony at all. It’s chaotic uncertainty, and that’s why I love it.