The epoch of tiramisu in bed on a Saturday morning. Of sharing soap, of rituals, what it means to live a thousand lifetimes within a year, knowing your mother will never love me and pretending it won’t matter someday. The epoch of organizing socks. Of grocery lists, of intricacy. The epoch of lavender sheets, of you coming home to me, the way everything else feels so small. Of sleep talking, post-it notes in a lunch bag, back porch thunderstorms, letting in the rain. The epoch of choosing t...
