I will never finish falling in love with you. It did not start in sparkles and fairy-light displays. It started in the warm recess of my kitchen sink drain that you told me I should clean more, or I’d have a mold problem. It started in drip-dropping rain puddles that have worn grooves into your patio. There was no song playing as I waltzed down a silver staircase into your gaze, but there were notes left in the margins of my mind after long car rides and soft music. There were coat colors of navy blue and orange that raced down my street, worn by small children with big faces. There was a hummingbird we named Carl and a cat, Rosie, whom you hated. There were big, fuzzy purple socks—the kind you get from your granny—which I received with chocolates and flowers from a “Secret Admirer.”