Never get separate bedspreads
It may be the beginning of the end.
Love found me quite late in life.
I had to mature to 29, survive an eating disorder and undergo years of therapy until I could even begin to entertain the idea that I’m lovable.
Once it had me, love gripped me tight.
Where I used to prefer being on my own, I valued my partner’s company.
Where I could never imagine living with another human being in a small space, I enjoyed months in a one-bedroom flat.
Where I could never fall asleep next to someone, I slept soundly cuddled together underneath the bedspread with my partner.
How little I knew myself back then, eh?
Sleeping in the same bed proved to be a surprising favorite to me. As someone in need of regular assurance, sharing space at night helped soothe my doubts and worries.
In retrospect, these doubts proved quite warranted, and what I though to be “love” was more of an infatuation. A whirlwind of hormones and endorphins so overwhelming that I couldn’t see the signs.
Signs like this.
A few months into our relationship, we decided to get another bedspread.
