This is here After, and I'm your host, Megan Divine. Each week we tackled big questions from therapists, nurses, and other helpful folks that let us explore how to show up after life goes horribly wrong. At least that's what we usually do. This week, I wanted to add a bonus Valentine's Day week essay. It's unlike our usual show. It's a story that I wrote a number of years ago, and it's a love story, and it feels really appropriate to share it because Hereafter itself is a love story. If you want to hear more personal essays like this, we can stitch them in as sort of occasional bonus episodes. But let me know what you think. I'll give you some show notes at the end of the essay, but I'm also going to leave a little beat at the end so that it's not an abrupt change between the end of the love story and the closing. Okay, Alma, the essay the half Life of Love. We courted for months before we touched. But before we were courting, there were eyes flicked up, cast down, not wanting the other to see, stealing glances. I traced the scar on his neck from across the coffee shop. He noted the books I was reading, watched how I fixed my tea. Weeks passed by like this. Once officially introduced, we moved into a slow dance of flirting, not flirting. We waited for each other, reserving tables in the early morning rush. We spoke questions meant to learn about each other without tipping our hands at more. In those first few months, he would leave his paper for me to find, saving half the crossbroad puzzle for me, wishing me a good day. In the margins, I left in messages of random words underlined to make a poem or a song. We read books together in our coffee shop, compared notes on cadence and rhyme. On the night, I finagled my way into his car because I bought a ride home by simply jumping in. When I saw him at a stoplight, he told me we could go no further. There were others involved, There were commitments he'd made to himself to sever fully what had come before, without muddying the waters was something new. So back at the coffee shop, we drew lines down the center of our table, his side, my side, never mind our feet touching underneath. He had rules. No being alone together in dimly lit places, no dates after dark, lunch, but not dinner. He said it was safer that way. I complied, because I'm good at this, because I can love without touching. I can't feign non affection, but I can love without needing to act. We remained reserved. There were walks around the block, trips to the art museum in broad daylight, longer walks, more tea. February fourteenth began like any other day. My notebooks scattered around me, a pot of tea open book. He roared into our coffee shop, flustered, nervous, dropping his keys. So so I have this meat. I had frosted this meat for some other dinner, but it got canceled. So I was wondering. I was wondering, would you would you like to have dinner tonight? My calm deflected his nervousness, Sure, I said, my eyebrows raised. I did not remind him of his rules. Once I gave my assent, he stammered, Okay, I have to start cooking right now then, and ran out without his keys. When I arrived at his house that night, John Stone was playing on the stereo. There were candles lit. He had a towel thrown over his shoulder. It was a look I would one day associate with home. He could we ate, played scrabble. When it was time to go, We stood in the doorway, close but not touching the threshold literally figuratively, not touching, not kissing, just space held between us. He walked out into the cold, snowy night to start my car for me, my old green Saturn that was on its last legs by then stalling out in first gear. No hills allowed anymore. Just five days later, the scene repeated again, john Stone, scrabble, dinner, No kissing, no touching, just breath close by held. I drove off into another night of clear stars, leaving him behind. He called the next day, inviting me to a movie in early afternoon matinee, breaking his rule against being alone in dim places. We bought popcorn and drinks, settled into two seats, middle row on the aisle, and there in the dark, he reached over the arm rest and picked up my hand. He held it in his lap without speaking, his eyes never leaving the screen. I missed the first half hour of that movie. My mind raised with a touch of his hand, stunned by its weight, by its warmth, our joined hands in his lap, unmoving. When the movie ended, we were still holding hands. We didn't speak. We drove back to my house. We sat on my couch. And it's funny, and all the times I have remembered this, I do not remember our first kiss. I remember instead the feel of his hand in the darkness. I remember his voice once we spoke. I remember lying in his arms a few short hours later, having hiked up the bottom of my shirts so our bellies could touch. Lying there, I told him, if you change your mind on me again, I'll respect it, but it won't be without damage. You can't just toy with my heart. I won't change my mind again, he says, his eyes level with mine, his voice soft and clear. I can no longer deny my feelings for you. I already know I love you. I replay this in my mind. It is ten years now from that night. He has been dead for five. I say that, and it doesn't seem real. I flashed back to other times when he was here, when we were new, holding hands in the darkness. I flashed back to those early days, the tension, the sweetness, his rules, the cold, starry nights, sailing past Valentine's Day. As we round the corner to touch, I returned to that night, the dark theater, the feel of his hand. I hit pause. I pull our joined hands to my chest, raise them to my lips, kiss his knuckles. Knowing what I know, knowing what is to come in just five short years, I whisper, I already know I love you. Ten years and I would do it again. I would do it all again. I would do this all again. I want to hear more personal essay bonus episodes let me know. You can call us at three to three six three six eight and leave a voicemail. If you miss that, you can find the number in the show notes or at Megan Divine dot c O. You can use that to tell me about more essays, or just ask me a question to answer on our regular show by Friends

This is here After, and I'm your host, Megan Divine. Each week we tackled big questions from therapists, nurses, and other helpful folks that let us explore how to show up after life goes horribly wrong. At least that's what we usually do. This week, I wanted to add a bonus Valentine's Day week essay. It's unlike our usual show. It's a story that I wrote a number of years ago, and it's a love story, and it feels really appropriate to share it because Hereafter itself is a love story. If you want to hear more personal essays like this, we can stitch them in as sort of occasional bonus episodes. But let me know what you think. I'll give you some show notes at the end of the essay, but I'm also going to leave a little beat at the end so that it's not an abrupt change between the end of the love story and the closing. Okay, Alma, the essay the half Life of Love. We courted for months before we touched. But before we were courting, there were eyes flicked up, cast down, not wanting the other to see, stealing glances. I traced the scar on his neck from across the coffee shop. He noted the books I was reading, watched how I fixed my tea. Weeks passed by like this. Once officially introduced, we moved into a slow dance of flirting, not flirting. We waited for each other, reserving tables in the early morning rush. We spoke questions meant to learn about each other without tipping our hands at more. In those first few months, he would leave his paper for me to find, saving half the crossbroad puzzle for me, wishing me a good day. In the margins, I left in messages of random words underlined to make a poem or a song. We read books together in our coffee shop, compared notes on cadence and rhyme. On the night, I finagled my way into his car because I bought a ride home by simply jumping in. When I saw him at a stoplight, he told me we could go no further. There were others involved, There were commitments he'd made to himself to sever fully what had come before, without muddying the waters was something new. So back at the coffee shop, we drew lines down the center of our table, his side, my side, never mind our feet touching underneath. He had rules. No being alone together in dimly lit places, no dates after dark, lunch, but not dinner. He said it was safer that way. I complied, because I'm good at this, because I can love without touching. I can't feign non affection, but I can love without needing to act. We remained reserved. There were walks around the block, trips to the art museum in broad daylight, longer walks, more tea. February fourteenth began like any other day. My notebooks scattered around me, a pot of tea open book. He roared into our coffee shop, flustered, nervous, dropping his keys. So so I have this meat. I had frosted this meat for some other dinner, but it got canceled. So I was wondering. I was wondering, would you would you like to have dinner tonight? My calm deflected his nervousness, Sure, I said, my eyebrows raised. I did not remind him of his rules. Once I gave my assent, he stammered, Okay, I have to start cooking right now then, and ran out without his keys. When I arrived at his house that night, John Stone was playing on the stereo. There were candles lit. He had a towel thrown over his shoulder. It was a look I would one day associate with home. He could we ate, played scrabble. When it was time to go, We stood in the doorway, close but not touching the threshold literally figuratively, not touching, not kissing, just space held between us. He walked out into the cold, snowy night to start my car for me, my old green Saturn that was on its last legs by then stalling out in first gear. No hills allowed anymore. Just five days later, the scene repeated again, john Stone, scrabble, dinner, No kissing, no touching, just breath close by held. I drove off into another night of clear stars, leaving him behind. He called the next day, inviting me to a movie in early afternoon matinee, breaking his rule against being alone in dim places. We bought popcorn and drinks, settled into two seats, middle row on the aisle, and there in the dark, he reached over the arm rest and picked up my hand. He held it in his lap without speaking, his eyes never leaving the screen. I missed the first half hour of that movie. My mind raised with a touch of his hand, stunned by its weight, by its warmth, our joined hands in his lap, unmoving. When the movie ended, we were still holding hands. We didn't speak. We drove back to my house. We sat on my couch. And it's funny, and all the times I have remembered this, I do not remember our first kiss. I remember instead the feel of his hand in the darkness. I remember his voice once we spoke. I remember lying in his arms a few short hours later, having hiked up the bottom of my shirts so our bellies could touch. Lying there, I told him, if you change your mind on me again, I'll respect it, but it won't be without damage. You can't just toy with my heart. I won't change my mind again, he says, his eyes level with mine, his voice soft and clear. I can no longer deny my feelings for you. I already know I love you. I replay this in my mind. It is ten years now from that night. He has been dead for five. I say that, and it doesn't seem real. I flashed back to other times when he was here, when we were new, holding hands in the darkness. I flashed back to those early days, the tension, the sweetness, his rules, the cold, starry nights, sailing past Valentine's Day. As we round the corner to touch, I returned to that night, the dark theater, the feel of his hand. I hit pause. I pull our joined hands to my chest, raise them to my lips, kiss his knuckles. Knowing what I know, knowing what is to come in just five short years, I whisper, I already know I love you. Ten years and I would do it again. I would do it all again. I would do this all again. I want to hear more personal essay bonus episodes let me know. You can call us at three to three six three six eight and leave a voicemail. If you miss that, you can find the number in the show notes or at Megan Divine dot c O. You can use that to tell me about more essays, or just ask me a question to answer on our regular show by Friends