I changed the ending of the story I was handed. And I didn’t do it loudly, or for attention—I did it quietly, like planting a tree I may never sit under, trusting that its shade will still offer shelter to someone, someday.”—Emily Pratt Slatin

It was late, I pulled my skirt off, tossed it in a lazy heap on the far corner of my bed, and stood there for a second in just my bra, my panties, and an old shirt with a frayed collar.

For once, I didn’t feel the need to perform for anyone, not even for myself. And then out of nowhere, it hit me like a punch to the chest. I love the ever living fuck out of Amelia.

There are so many people who think love is supposed to be neat, manageable, polite—something you can fold and tuck away when it becomes inconvenient. When I’m in love, truly in love, I don’t know how to love halfway.

I stood there, half-dressed, and half-broken, and I realized that even if Amelia never sleeps beside me again, even if our relationship is that of two best friends who are married but live only as roommates, I will still love her with everything I have, because loving her changed the shape of me in ways I never want to undo.

This isn’t the kind of love that needs permission. This isn’t the kind of love that begs to be understood. It just is.

And standing there half-naked in the soft, forgiving dark, I realized something else—
Loving the ever living fuck out of Amelia is one of the most honest, most beautiful things I will ever do. And if that makes me a fool in the eyes of the world, then so be it.