The walk home from class has always been a pensive one. Barely uphill, barely downhill, and long enough to keep my mind occupied on some pressing matter. The matters press for answers that lack due dates; for more clarity to questions that lack punctuation, and continue indefinitely.

My life exists in clouds of ambiguity. My racial composition is the middle of a Venn diagram, my future is a series of maybes, and my relationship status is not words, but question marks. Perhaps that’s the college experience. Living indefinitely for 4 years to figure out what you would fight for, what you would die for, and most importantly, what you would live for. “Making a living” is the perfect phrase. Because that’s what life should be: living purposefully, utilizing more verbs than nouns. More doing, less stagnation. 

But for now, it’s the mystique of maybes.

It wears off sometimes when I get into those pensive strolls. Sometimes I want an answer to the questions like, “Will anyone ever notice that my hair is curlier when it rains? Will anyone know the approximate number of birth marks I have on my skin? Will anyone ever pay that much attention to me? Will I ever be able to put down my guard and let someone into my life?” 

Today, I realized that life has a funny way of answering your questions. 

Has anyone noticed that my hair is curlier when it rains? No. But he has remarked about the omnipresence of my hair on his pillow like I’ve left post-it notes to think of me.

Has anyone determined the approximate number of birth marks I have? No. but he keeps track of the bruises on my legs and numbers them at an average of 3 per week.

Will anyone ever pay that much attention to me? No, he doesn’t remember our conversations. But he does remember laying with me for the first time on some obscure spring afternoon during a field training exercise after days of not showering. 

Will I ever be able to put down my guard and let someone into my life?

I think the safe answer is that I had the answer before I even asked it. 

Whether we ever become “Facebook official” or this becomes a passing college memory about romantic ambiguity that I laugh about over dinner… I’m smitten, whether I like it or not.

Ages 1-8: AWH I WAS SO CUTE

Age 9+: WHAT HAPPENED

(Source: galaxytamer, via karaboubum)