After all, it is the best time of one’s life; those rosy days of vernal love, where every conversation, every meeting, every glance, gives you something to rejoice over.
Thus I recall, wistfully, how I was already smiling at 9:32 in the morning. You had sent a text to greet my sleepy eyes. I sank into the sofa, full of glee, and left my cereal to soften in the sluggish milk. I did not return to it until much later.
I also recall how at the close of midnight, after switching the lights off and sliding into the soft ,comfortable cocoon, I would not sleep, but deliberately keep awake, for I knew that you would soon reply to my message; and how could I have denied myself that almost imperceptible pleasure?
Do not think this a vestige of my affection. Be sure, and by it be comforted, that it is not you whom I miss, but only that enrapturing privilege afforded to blossoming lovers; of being able to wait with child-like eagerness for a message to come, or of being gladdened by the secret bond which you share with you love, and which no one else shall similarly possess.
I suppose then that it’s not unnatural to feel slightly upset in times like these, when such memories make their way to the surface, like a suddenly dislodged relic, a mother-of-pearl treasure which the heart had quietly stored in its dark depths.