We reside in a town where the sky glows a pale salmon hue every night before dusk. It is the same ritual every night. At seven o’clock, he returns to the enclosed shack we call home— or at least our place of residence. This act indicates my cue to begin preparing his favorite dish, and the only dish he ever eats; steak and potatoes. I dare not cook the steak for more than an accumulative eight minutes. I am wildly unaware of what will occur if I cook it for nine, and do not want to know. However, there is no entity I desire to know less about than him. I do not want to know if he pursues other lovers. I do not want to know if he takes his Vitamin C as his doctor tells him to. I certainly do not want to know if he is a drug addict, or if, even occasionally, he smokes pot. It is of absolutely no interest to me if he cheats at Scrabble, if his secret ambition is to become a psychologist, or why he has an obsession with Criminal Minds like every other teenage girl. All I need to know is that he prefers his steak medium rare, and his potatoes well done.

 So when I was presented with the opportunity to watch his life unfold, I kindly declined. I have not any interest in shadowing his every move until the day I die; I would rather be homebound. So I am. I stay at our house all day and night. Only leaving to purchase groceries has unlocked a euphoric sensation that I would not be so fortunate to experience, had I departed from the house more often. When I am not participating in my weekly grocery endeavors, I sit on our porch which overlooks the endearing Japanese Maple trees. Their delicate and diverse presence has enabled me to establish a connection with them before I think I ever could with him. The slight breeze always meets my textured pale skin. It is the only form of touch I am pleased with experiencing, and ever will be. As I sit here with my legs crossed over each other staring into the abyss, I can’t help but ponder upon what he is doing at this very moment. Hell, every day at work from seven in the morning to eight at night. Ever so often, I regret not taking the job offer. Working with him in that mundane office building would be of absolutely no pleasure to me, or him. I think. But sometimes, as much as I hate to admit it, I do wonder if he cheats at Scrabble.

 I hear the door creak open, so I check the time. Eight o’clock— that’s my cue. I began preparing the steak and potatoes. “Not too long,” he told me as if I didn’t already know. After all of these years, I suppose he should know that I know how to cook his food. We coincided on my thirteenth birthday. I was at a party, and he arrived alongside a girl, which I later found out was his sister. He had not the slightest bit of interest in me. In fact, he was so engrossed in his phone, that I was almost certain he did not see me. I asked his friend, Pedro, what he was doing on his phone. “Stocks.” This single word generated an abundance of questions in my head. Why was a thirteen-year-old doing stocks? Did his parents not have enough money? Did his parents have too much money? I could not help but notice how unfortunately cute he was. No. Cute should be an understatement. This guy was beautiful. It was then that I knew this man would become the man who I loved, whether he loved me back or not. 

After dinner, he embarks on his journey to our bedroom where I join him for the single activity we participate in, collectively. Sleeping. 

So, the million-dollar question arises. Why do I stay with a person that prevents me from branching out, meeting new people, and living life to the fullest? The answer is simple but digs deeper than any one person is capable of expressing. Love is binding, especially when it is unconditional. I have attempted time and time again to abandon him. Nothing was stopping me— not physically, anyhow. Nothing but my desire to see him every night when he came home. As S’yash Medina once said, “You never stop loving. Once you love someone honestly, truly, you will never be able to un-love them.”