Every way I try seems laden with treacle, dripping with cliche. Were I actually writing, not typing, I would be using a pink pen and large loopy letters with hearts to dot my "i's."

Night of laughing, complimenting, complementing. Night of friends and cake and singing. Night of stolen kisses in the cold. Night of missed trains but found hands; morning of blinks and yawns and hugs and shyness.

A high school sweetheart, six years late and seven states removed.