Six years. Seventy-two months. Three hundred and twelve weeks. Two thousand, one hundred and ninety days.
That’s the amount of time Andrew and I have spent together as of yesterday. Okay, maybe I’m forgetting a couple days because of leap years. But never the less yesterday I celebrated six glorious years with the one I love. And reflected over how much has changed in the time since Andrew and I first met. And how little has changed in the time since Andrew and I first met. My diet may have completely changed, our late-night nacho feasts long gone, but the love we share is just as strong as it was on that night when the two of us laid under the stars and told each other “I love you” for the first time. We’re the same silly kids we’ve always been with tickle fights and lame jokes. He’s still the boy who can make me smile even when I want to cry. The only boy I’ve ever loved. The only boy I ever want to wake up beside, hogging the covers and snuggling close.
And I can’t wait to be seventy, still holding hands and sneaking kisses and still competing to wish the other one “happy anniversary” first and arguing over who loves the other one more.