There was once a girl who followed a boy to the other side of the world to win back his heart.
On a cold, clear night she kissed him on a bridge and cried all the way back to her hotel because it was rather perfect and it always had been.
Then she broke her ankle at the top of an icy mountain, flew all the way home with her foot up - thank you travel insurance - and when she arrived she sent the boy a note.
Real love stories never have endings, she wrote. And she got lucky, because she is the luckiest. Except on French black runs in the late afternoon.
Ever have a sliding doors moment? That fall was probably mine.
Eleven years later and love these days feels like a second skin, simple, raw, the most comfortable, easy presence. It is a million tiny moments, some charged, some furious, some silent, many not acknowledged or even designed to be.
It is a cup of hot coffee placed in my hand in the morning. Fresh sheets on the bed without telling me. A new dress, bought for me online after a passing comment. A Ben Folds song. Learning my recipes and churning out orders beside me. The sight of him wrapped up in a book, or up to his elbows in flour kneading pizza dough, or sitting in a sea of Duplo with our boys building helicopters.