It happens in the night. The moment you wake up and are unsure if you are still in your dream or in your bed. You reach for your person. They are next to you. You know you are in the waking world. You know you are safe.
It happens on your way home. You begin to think about what you need to do, what needs to be done, the maintenance of life that can sometimes seem crushing when your mind, body, or soul is exhausted. You think of your person. The weight of the uncertainty fades. You will go home to your person. You will be held in their arms for a moment. You will be able to carry on.
It happens when you talk to the people that love you. In their voice over the phone you can hear their earnestness. They want you to be happy. You want to prove that you’re happy. Your person is proof that you’re happy. You illustrate the ways you and your person’s lives are entwined to prove to them that you’ve found solid ground. To prove to yourself you’ve found solid ground.
The comforts of a life lived in tandem can sedate you for years. Like the right amount of good weed or a warm bath before bed, the air around you envelops you. You don’t notice that the source of its comfort is also the weight that makes it suffocating.