It’s 3 years from now. You’re sitting on the window seat of the house you bought with your partner only last year. The boxes have finally been unpacked. You have a steaming mug clasped between your hands, steam warming your cold nose. The outside is dusted with cold, a chill that’s trying to sneak beneath the doors and fight the flames dancing in the grate. Your clothes are soft and warm, made of bamboo or pure cotton, bought from a shop that prides itself on how they treat the environment. There’s a laptop open in front of you detailing a resort on the Italian coast that you’re dreaming of going to. Your partner arrives home when you’re draining the last dregs of tea from your mug, offers you another mug. You don’t refuse. You accept their endearing look, their eyes full of love unmatched by none but you, when you look at them. You’re happy. Never tired. Dreaming of escapes that are entirely possible. In a house. That you own. With your partner. And it’s only 3 years from now.
