Over weeks she became a regular fixture in my custom, matchbox apartment. We would pass our days apart, studying - I, graphic design; her, social work - and our nights together. I would bring her pizza and she would bring me solace.

She was an ethereal and calming influence on my impulsive, tempestuous heart. In turn, I livened her tranquillity, allowed her to no longer be so afraid.

She would tightly wrap her body around mine like a cloak whenever I became enraged. She regularly bought me extravagant, pristine art supplies and baked brownies with me. She often sent me sentimental texts and kept up to date with my favourite musicians, sending me their latest music. I knew she loved me before either of us uttered the words.

As the months wore on she moved herself in. Without consulting me first. Typically, one would be rather irked by such a bold act but I, I smiled and pressed her against the drywall in a devoted kiss.

She changed my answering machine message to one that affectionately included her. She designated particular shelves in my cupboards and fridge to each of us. She adorned the apartment with tongue-in-cheek photographs of us. She inextricably moulded us together. 

We would awaken on my fold-out couch, limbs and lives intertwined and begin our days with a kiss, sometimes more.

We shared showers, meals, orgasms and time. Everything. Everything was ours.