Love is a strange thing. I struggled to find what books, movies and rumors call "The One," a person who will accept you, understand you, and embrace you for all that you are despite your flaws and inconsistencies. So there I was, searching and searching in hopes of finding someone who would accept me, understand me, embrace me.

And one day, I finally found him. My interest only further peaked when he unveiled an interest in me. He asked me questions about myself that even I didn't know the answers to. I pondered them, rolling them over in my hand like smooth stones that are soft to the touch but full of weight. We talked for hours on end. Even as the sun would rise over us, it made no difference. Our curiosity in each other was consuming and the lapsing time was but a marker of the minutes of our lives overlapping, connecting, merging. In the dusty pink dawns after cutting our conversations short to include brief moments of sleep, I layed in bed and thought to myself, I have finally found him. A year later, two years later, three, four, I felt confident in calling him mine. He was mine. And I believed it.

So where does that all go now? Where do I put those emotions that have grown roots so deep? How do I let it go when it still tugs at me?