WHY

HOW

The first time it happened was our first date.

He was on his way to the restaurant, I had been there for twenty minutes already. I was frantically texting my friends, wondering if I'd been ghosted. Just as I was about to leave, he showed up, completely out of breath.

"My car broke down," I remember him explaining to me through rushed breaths, "I was gonna get here early!" He looks...no, sorry, he looked so embarrassed, so humiliated.

"Did you...did you walk here?" I asked him incredulously, staring at his flushed face, handsome even with the red tint and sweat running down the sides.

He just gave me a nod, then dropped eye contact as if he couldn't bear to face whatever was next. "You walked the entire way? ...For me?" I watched as his brows furrowed; it was clear he expected me to be mad.

"Uh, yeah?" He's acting as if it's no big deal. Sorry, he acted as if it wasn't a big deal. God, I still remember every little detail like it was yesterday. His shoulders were slightly hunched forward, as if he was trying to hide in embarrassment--not that it worked, being 6 foot tall and all. His short, wavy brown hair glistened with sweat. He didn't smell too good, but I could forgive him for that.

I cracked a smile. "Thank you," I say, looking directly into his eyes, capturing his attention. He couldn't look away, I couldn't look away, and we kissed for the first time right there. Before the date even began.

That was when I knew it was love. Which is crazy, because we were high school juniors and it was only one kiss. Sure, I'd had a crush on him since elementary school, but it's not exactly the age that you usually find your "true love". All the adults called me crazy; my parents were already pissed that I wasn't dating a girl, so that just made it worse. But I stuck with it.

And so I stuck with it, every single time he arrived late. And I mean every single time, because he was late to everything.

Coffee shop? He would arrive twenty minutes late, I'd have downed multiple cups of coffee waiting for him.

Movie theater? The previews had already ended. Which, I suppose was a good thing, but still, he was late.

My 17th birthday party? He arrived within the last 30 minutes. I screamed and yelled at him for missing it. He made it up to me with a special midnight afterparty.

And then the day I left for college. That was the very first time I got a real glimpse of what would come in the future. Of all times to show up late, you'd think he'd refrain from doing so that time. Wrong, he was two hours late. I waited for him for so long, my furious parents dragged me into the car and drove me away.

He tried FaceTiming me a billion times that night.

Every single time, I clicked decline.

NOW

I was twenty-six years old. It'd been a whole decade since we started dating. I still remembered his sheepish, dimpled grin that he always gave me. I still had his number saved in my phone, even though I never texted him. I still had "BB + Noah" tattooed on my arm.

I wore long sleeves for a reason.

But that day, I didn't have my jean jacket, I was just wearing a simple pride T-shirt. I'd looked in the mirror that day and told myself nothing would go wrong.

"You're beautiful," I told my reflection, "and all the cute guys will be watching you."

I didn't know how right I was until I entered the building, and Noah and his friends were all there, staring openmouthed at me.

No, I didn't notice them at first. There were so many rainbow flags and decorations, so many handsome men and not-handsome men milling around, they all served as distractions.

But in the end, my eyes went to Noah. As my brown eyes met his, I saw the shock radiating from his gorgeous blue eyes, those eyes that never fail to send a jolt of electricity through my body.

Even with the large crowd pulsing around us, people stepping past us and blocking our view of each other, we just kept staring.

My legs carried me away from him. I stumbled backwards, this wasn't right. It couldn't have been him. But it was, and he was making his way towards me.

His longer, stronger legs moved faster than mine, in no time, we were face to face, pushed closer to each other by the crowd closing in on us.

I'd never been claustrophobic, but at that moment, I just wanted space, distance, and time. That's the formula for mending hearts, but all the stitches holding my heart together burst upon seeing him.

"Noah?" My mouth formed the words, but my voice cracked when I tried to vocalize it. Still, he understood what I was trying to say. He always knew me better than I even knew myself.

My eyes hungrily took in every inch of his skin, each little part of him representing one of the many memories flooding through my brain. The clearest memory of them all was of Noah, 17 years-old, late to our first date, looking humiliated. I couldn't match that Noah with the one I was seeing standing in front of me.

He mustered a smile. I know his smiles, this one was forced, it wasn't natural. He was nervous, his eyes spelled out grief and guilt. I'd been so blinded by rage before that I'd never noticed the message his eyes tried to send me with every glance, every blink: I'm sorry.

"You're late," he whispered to me. His smile relaxed a little; it was a genuine smile now. And for some reason, I smiled right back.

WHY

I don't know what happened in that moment. It'd been two years since I last saw him, since we ended our on-and-off relationship.

I don't want to date a cheater. I don't want to date someone who takes advantage of my patience in order to go off and fuck other guys. I don't want to date somebody who leaves me outside in the rain like some cheesy movie breakup, waiting for him to show up only to find that he's never going to.

Then why didn't I cover up my tattoo at that very moment? Why didn't I shove my way through the crowd and leave? Why did I pull him into a kiss that night, right as he was about to give up? Why did I admit that I still cared?

Why did I let him put the ring on my finger yesterday, why was I genuinely crying tears of joy?

Why do I still love him?

He's always stumbling, screwing up perfection. So why do I wait for him to get back up?

I don't know. But I can tell you, as I'm resting my head on his chest, slowly rising and falling, as I'm writing this in the dim light, making sure not to make too much noise or shine the light to bright--I can tell you that I don't need any concrete reason.

I just love him. I love his hair, his eyes, his nose, his lips, his jaw, his chest, his abs, and what's below that. I love how he still shows up just a minute late to just about everything, wearing that same dimpled smile I've known for so long.

And I love how he lets me know his phone password, even though I don't need to check his phone anymore. Because I know he loves me as much as I love him.

So yeah, I don't need his phone password, I don't need this ring, I don't even need to be around him to still love him. Seriously, take a minute to just pause and scream from the mountaintops, "fuck logic!" There's no logic or thinking to any of this.

I don't care how cheesy it sounds: I love him. And that's why I don't mind waiting, because if I hadn't waited that day at the restaurant, I wouldn't have found what I found. I'll wait at the coffee shop, at the movie theater. I'll wait on the park bench, I'll wait in the car, I'll wait on the bed. I'll wait for my whole life if I have to.

Because nothing, and I mean nothing beats the feeling of our hands touching. And nothing beats the feeling of his lips, connecting with mine, right where they belong.