If we all go through metamorphoses in love, then who are we really married to—the person, or the procession of selves they become?
I kept one old shirt from my partner just to remember his smell. It used to be musky and rusty, the kind of scent that made me want to run away on a hot, sweaty day. But it was comforting in the way only something deeply familiar can be. A scent that, for a long while, felt like home. After a near-death accident, he came back to life. And in doing so, something shifted. His smell changed. His touch had a new kind of gentleness to it—like even he wasn’t sure what strength lived inside him anymore. His laughter even had a different rhythm. The man I once knew didn’t disappear... but he wasn’t entirely the same either. I never told him this, but some nights I’d wake up disoriented—like I was in bed with a stranger who happened to wear his face. We didn't talk enough about how that event changed us —how grief and fear cracked us open in ways even time didn’t yet to know how to stitch back up. And it wasn’t just him. I changed, too. My tenderness hardened. My independence grew teeth...
