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You can't pinpoint the moment you fell in love with him. You can't pinpoint the moment you finally realized you were in love with him. You don't even know what that first hint was: a smug smile, a backwards tie, a bad joke.
It's just one of those things, you reason. Things happen all the time.
They're just things, you tell yourself as your chest clenches at the sight of a trench coat casually hung in the closet. They're just things, you think as you trace the curve of his hands, wrapped around his coffee mug, with your eyes. They're just things, you promise yourself as you lay in your one- pillow bed that has room for another.
When he died- pick a death, any death- was that just a thing? The way your thoughts started to drag. The way the emptiness pulsed under your skin like the last thrusts of a sick and dying heart. The way you pretended you didn't notice the flash of beige every time you opened the junker of the week's trunk.
You wish you had paid more attention in math class in high school. Maybe then you could add it all up. Maybe the numbers know what the hell is going on here, because you sure as shit don't.
Name a synonym for love. Pain, loss, heartbreak, grief, failure. Go listen to Billy Joel if you're interested in more.
That's all it's ever been for you. A fight. An obligation. A dogma. You've heard rumors from hallmark cards that love is something people actively seek out. What a world we live in, you think, chuckling mirthlessly. All these people are loving wrong.
It's been so hard to find common ground between you two, especially as the years have worn on. The only thing you can ever seem to agree on is that you both look exhausted. More often than not, he has a world to save, you have a world to save. The details may differ but the story is always the same. Not now. Not this time. Just staying for a night because this is cheaper than a motel, you get it. You're the lighthouse to each other's lost ships on the foggy bay, yada yada. You're the rest stop, the interim, the journey but never the destination. You're both so full of dust and grit you're afraid if you ever collided Sam would need to go find the nearest broom.
Fine.
But love never had anything to do with any of that, because loving him has been the easy part. You love him whether he's around or not. You love him powered up, powered down, and any and all states in between. You can't love him for always being there because, well, he hasn't. But you love him anyway. You love him despite. You're never going to not love him.
The sky is blue, and you love him. It's just another thing.
Maybe one day the stars will align just right, or the world will decide to save itself for once. Maybe one day your eyes will meet in the middle of a conversation and you'll just know. Maybe one day everything will just slot into place like hallmark promises it will.
What you really want, though, isn't any of those things. You're realistic. You hedge your bets.
The most you can hope for is that you'll learn how to love right. How to be soft. How to be kind. How to shake off the dust from the open road.
When you kiss him, you'd rather he feel your heart beating than taste dust on your tongue.