One thing I've noticed about people is that they can treat you terribly for years, but the moment you finally start treating them the same way, suddenly you're the one who's changed.
They'll remember your reaction but conveniently forget everything they did to provoke it.
And the funniest part? They'll tell the story to other people without including the chapters that made you that way.
Some people don't actually miss the person you used to be. They miss how much they could get away with when you were that person.
11pm: the shoe shop closes and the street goes quiet in stages.
12:40am: the bus that goes nowhere useful passes with two people on it, and I have been one of them, and I would be again.
"How many times have you seen it?" she asked, and I said I had lost count, which was a lie I told to avoid the real number.
The real number is nineteen.
I am not proud of it, but I am not going to stop either, and she has decided to find this charming.
The cost of a long relationship is not money.
It is the person you did not become, the city you did not move to, the two years you spent being patient.
Nobody sends an invoice, so the bill takes a decade to notice.
You notice it in how slowly you answer a simple question.
You notice it and stay anyway.
6pm: my mother arrives with two bags of food and no plans to stay.
9pm: she is still here, has rearranged my kitchen, and has asked twice what I pay in rent and once whether I am saving anything at all.