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Five.

There wasn’t going to be a five.

Honestly.

When we spoke around Christmas we said what we said. I don’t think I meant it. I just like to tell you what I think you want to hear.

You deleted your messages. I kept screenshots. No reason why. No need to worry.

Anyway. There wasn’t going to be a five. I can’t remember the last time I held myself in bed and missed you. A year? More? But the other day I typed a search into my phone and it suggested the file I have with our early conversations on. I saved them, spent an hour copying and pasting them all a few years ago. I opened it and read a little, just the first night or two. Before we even met.

I was so comfortable and I remember waking up every morning excited to know you a little better. Then we did meet and it wasn’t as easy. It never got easier.

I think I only relaxed in front of you once or twice. Rare enough that you actually noticed it.

So I tell myself, there won’t be a five. Why would there need to be a five? I reached acceptance a while ago. I live in it. It just is.

But then, a few times a year, your name flashes up on my phone and something sparks and it feels like, wow, and it hurts in this really specific place. The solar plexus.

So here is five. Five is special in a way, because it falls on a Friday and that’s the day we actually met. A true anniversary. As I write it’s almost 9pm, and I think by now we were at my house, or on the way, it didn’t feel like we were out for long. You stayed all weekend and then it was like you didn’t want to see me again and I should have let it go. But I held on and persisted and now you’re significant enough that I remember the date we met.

I wonder if there’ll be a six.

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