Happiness is a strange emotion. It doesn’t come naturally to me, and when it happens it always takes me by surprise. I’m almost suspicious of it; as though daring to allow myself happiness is some form of trap.
Still, I’m happy.
S and I spent a lot of time talking this weekend. Nothing major, nothing dramatic or life-changing, just pillow-talk, mostly; him stroking my hair and face while we lay in bed together, chatting about the future, my arm draped casually over his bare chest as I listened to his heartbeat. I found myself constantly taken by surprise by my feelings for him, this weekend. I’d look at him and this feeling of pure adoration filled my body, over and over. Occasionally we found ourselves just staring at each other. He keeps saying that he doesn’t know how he managed to land me, that he’s “incredibly lucky”. We spent the entire weekend completely attached at the hip, and I don’t understand how that doesn’t feel stifling; I’m such a solitary person, but I can spend hours just sitting with S, walking together, lazing around in bed.
I’ve never felt like this before. It scares me.