Yesterday I went to a wedding. When I sat down in the pews, I looked down at the booklet. It had a photo of the almost-husband and wife and with their names printed on the front.

I imagined my name on the front. There wasn’t hesitation or a second of consideration when I imagined your name next to mine. It was as though I had been thinking about our future as consistently as I used to (six months – has it really been that long?), and my body had been waiting says to throw your name out again.

I imagined you walking down an aisle – white dress, flowers (though I doubt we’d be traditional), probably barefoot. Our vows gentle reminders of continuous love. We wouldn’t be recognised by law (yet), but that wouldn’t bother me.

At eleven, some girls would dream about their dream wedding. I never considered what a ring on my left fourth finger would look like until you handed me that secondhand book. The maroon cover stands proudly on my shelf, marking a significant time and a place and person.

You rushed in and out of my world so fast – all adventure and longing and confessions and honesty and lies and distance.

Last week I reread the letter you wrote me, almost as a way of punishing myself. For what, I don’t know, but I know that I blame myself more than anything and anyone else for what we are now. (Nothing.)

I fell in love with you within minutes of us really meeting. I’m still in love with you. I think. If I saw you tomorrow, I’d stop dead in my tracks, stare at your beautiful face, and my heart would beat out of my chest. I can promise that I’d cross the street to avoid you. Or pretend to not see you. And I’d maybe (probably) cry.

I wish for us to work. Wish for it to be our names in a booklet. Wish for us.