There was a time, four or five years ago, when I lived only four days a month. Four days of really living. Of feeling alive. Four enchanting, intoxicating days. The rest of the time, I just existed. And it was a strange existence; wishing days away. Scribbling dates on the calendar. Existing only in relation to him. Viewing a beautiful sunset as nothing more than being another day closer to seeing him.

He was everything to me. Literally. When I was summoned, I took the opportunity to drink in every sight, every sound, every word. Every single sexy, blissful, exquisite moment of it all. It'd ensure i'd have something to sustain me through those meaningless moments without him. Those horribly arid dry spells.

He didn't feel the same. And I knew it. And he knew that I knew. He thought I was funny-ish. Pretty-ish. Sexy-ish. For him, it was always all very "ish". It was that simple. I envied him for that. And hated him. And, god, did I love him.


I'd walk home, knowing damn well that I wouldn't hear a word from him again until he wanted something. Casual sex is only that is both of you are, well, casual. And I wasn't. Love just isn't casual, is it? It's inconvenient and all-consuming and overpowering. I'd tell myself that this would be the last time. Every time was the last time. I've never known a feeling quite like it; never had anyone make me feel so incredibly stupid. So stupid i'll never be able to find the words to do it justice. I'd watch as I made a fucking fool of myself time and time again and then trot back for some more. So, quite simply, I pretended. For a long time. I perfected breezy. I mastered nonchalance. Shrugged away the pain creeping up my chest as he talked about his other women. Added another few layers atop of the already papered-over cracks.

And I had everyone fooled. Friends would marvel at my wonderfully cushy arrangement. Sex on tap, they'd marvel, no commitment, no worries. I'd smile suggestively and nod; glad that they never saw me painting on an extra coat of mascara every morning, in the hope that it would stop me crying. Never saw me curled up, head in hands, in the bath; my heart so heavy that I was sure it would pull me under the water.

No, they never saw that. To them, to him, to the world I was always nonchalant. Indifferent. And, more importantly - boy, I was breezy.

Then breezy became cold. Cold became icy. And icy ensured I always had bloody great glaciers floating around; perfect for keeping people at bay.






On Sunday morning my boyfriend brought me breakfast in bed. Doughnuts and hot chocolate. He motioned to a pile of work i'd been avoiding and smiled a knowing smile, ducking as I threw an exercise book at him. Later, as I wandered around in kitchen in one of his old t-shirts complete with jam splodge, he told me I was beautiful. And he meant it. I've never known anybody want the best for someone without expecting a single thing in return, fight for them, strive for them, step aside for them.

We scream sometimes. We argue. I roll my eyes and swear. He sighs and looks to the heavens. But, right from the start; right from the very second I met him, i've never felt stupid. Not once.

And those glaciers are starting to melt.