Today I discovered the gray in my hair. It made me think of time—all the time I’ve spent talking to you in my head, all the times I reached out to touch your hand and found nothing beside me but empty air, or someone else’s fingers.
I have aged. I am old. I have seen dreams come to life, hope waste away, faith stubbornly clinging to the faintest of memories, refusing to give up the fight.
I am older than you were when we first met.
Age is a funny thing. It creeps up on you while you’re busy wishing time would stand still. And the years rush by unnoticed because, in your mind, it’s 1987 and you’re still that lovestruck girl whose insides come alive and tingle just because this tall, lanky thief of her heart walks into the room and smiles at her.