Like all good love stories, I didn’t see this coming. Like any story of mine, that’s the only time I’m saying the word love. Because I didn’t see this coming. I like to control as much as humanly possible. I worry things into the ground and prepare as much as I can so there’s less to worry about. I carefully surround myself with a select group of people that keep me both protected and unavailable, but also not lonely. That way I don’t have to mess with dating. It’s one less thing to handle. I knew one day I’d want to, and when that day came hopefully it wouldn’t be too late—I wouldn’t have worn out my welcome with all men. Until then, I had to figure out who I was alone; I needed to heal and move past the past.

As I did those things my outlook changed. It isn’t that I wanted to suddenly find someone, but apparently they found me. I learned to say no thank you. I wasn’t ready; I wasn’t interested. Until the day I didn’t want to. Then I was more forward than I ever had been before. All I could think of was leaving—then having 800 miles between us—without figuring out if I was wrong about what was going on. If I was the only one who felt the way I did.

(I wasn’t wrong.)

We didn’t plan for this. No one is moving just yet. There are planes and highways and phones. It’s not easy, but it’s the simplest decision I’ve made in years. I may be the least romantic person who’s ever said that some things are just predestined. And when you’re not used to a person being willing to even stay home on a Friday night, it’s hard to get used to one driving across the country for a weekend. But these are called standards, and mine have changed.

 (I wasn’t wrong.)

s.jensen