THREE YEARS

Riding on the subway with you by my side, my mind wanders. I look around at the other people in this subway car, sharing this space with us, and I think back to the first time we went out together. Three years has passed, yet it feels like a week and a lifetime at the same time. I look over at you and you brush away your brown hair that fell over your green eyes. You feel me look at you so you glance over, smile your crooked smile, and give me a wink. I giggle and loop my arm through yours, pulling you closer and resting my left hand on top of your right.

As I lean my head onto your shoulder, I consider how we got here, to this spot, on this subway. I think about moves we have made and the hurdles we have jumped. The many times over these past three years that I have leaned on you, literally and metaphorically, are innumerable. You turn your head towards me, and kiss the top of mine, the action lasting only as long as a raindrop falls, but the feeling lasting as long as rain takes to dry.

We rise to walk off the train, walk through the crowded platform, and out onto the street. As we make our way towards the apartment we share together, you take my hand in yours. I still remember three years ago, the first time you did that. We were sitting in a dark theater and you reached over, ever so gently, laid your hand on mine. When I turned my palm to face yours, it felt as natural as the ocean breeze on a sunny day at the shore.

So many moments like this. I have to remind myself not to take it for granted: our walks together, our meals together, our adventures together. We arrive at our building and you turn the key in the lock, pulling the door open, and holding it for me. I walk up the steps and feel you behind me. I look back and gaze into your sea green eyes for a moment, but that moment says a lot. It says "I am here," "I am so happy," and "I am so grateful for you," all at once. And out loud, I remind you, as I do every morning and every night, as I have for the past three years, "I love you."