We were happy.
I had been roped into helping out at my mother's bakery.
You had found yourself a job at the local butcher's.
We were growing up, and time started to become elusive. We were constantly busy, working or travelling or caught up in some other activity. Somehow, though, we always found time for each other.
There was a small hill on the edge of our little village, although to call it a 'hill' was not quite right; it was really just a slightly-raised patch of land which sloped up on one side and down on the other. This was where we would go in our spare time, mostly because it provided more privacy than the treehouse, where the parents were always within spying distance.
There, we would talk for hours. About pointless things, then about important things, then about pointless things again. I had developed an interest in stars. You listened to me go on and on about constellations and the impossible vastness of the universe. You had developed an interest in literature, and somehow managed to acquire a collection of Shakespeare's plays. You recited quotes that you found beautiful, and when I wasn't rolling my eyes at your cheesiness, I was watching you, breathtaken, wondering how on earth I had ended up with someone so amazing.