And then we were dating. I don't really know how it happened, but it did. Maybe when I was knocking my knuckles off at his door after I read his journal and he kissed me with tears flying down both of our cheeks. Or maybe it was when I was sitting beside him on my couch and I showed him the video of us on the day we met and he started to tell me how beautiful he thought I was and I did the same for him. Or maybe it was when he was sad because he had an argument with his sister and he came to my flat and put the ends of his feet against mine and he told me that he just wanted to kiss me for hours, and so we did. Or maybe it was when we were driving down the highway at three in the morning because I wanted a blueberry Popsicle and I put my hand out the window and he put his on my thigh and we sang along to all the songs on his playlist.
It doesn't matter when it happened, just that it did, and that I was dating him and I was determined not to let him down because he was the best thing that has ever happened to me and I was so so so happy.
And it wasn't a one-sided relationship because no matter how long I spent learning everything I could about him and falling more in love without him by my side, I was still finding out things like how he always has to wear black socks or how he can't remember the meaning behind most of his tattoos or how he hates his hair but doesn't know what else to do with it because he's always hated it.
And I didn't care when his Twitter was filled with hate because of me or when I couldn't walk out of my own apartment without being blinded by camera flashes or how I was on the front of every tabloid in the country because I had him and he was mine and I knew that everyone was just jealous because that's what he told me when I cried into his shoulder.
But I couldn't help when my thoughts went back to how vivid and long this dream was. How it was like I could touch his hair and how it felt like we were actually dating and how when he kissed me I could've sworn it was real, but it couldn't be.
But when we danced on the roof under the stars, it was real. And when he grabbed my hips and lifted me above his head and spun me around his living room, it was real. And when his lips slipped into mine and his hands tinkered with mine, it was real. And when he let me sit on his lap on the couch and braid his hair, it was real. And when he took me to meet his mom and she hugged me, it was real. And when Gemma and I snuck out of the house at Christmas to go get cookie dough at four in the morning, it was real. And when I got the flu and he let me stay in his bed and brought me soup, it was real. And when I helped him write the lyrics to his first single, it was real.
But at the end of the day when he was in his bed and I was in mine and my fingers weren't in his hair and his fingers weren't tracing my back tattoo, it wasn't real, and I knew it had never been.
