This was what was supposed to happen: I’d meet Russ some time on Saturday afternoon, we’d hang out a couple of hours, he’d leave after dinner for a party he’d been invited to, and I would then pack in some hardcore study for as much of the night as I could manage.
This was what did happen: at some point during dinner I reminded him about the party; at some point after dinner he decided to skip the party. At some point we were faintly aware he’d missed his last tube home; at some point I looked out of the window and it was no longer dark. At every point we talked. And talked. And talked.
I crawled into bed at 6 am, curling myself around what felt like an intense core of happiness, gripped by the conviction that what we have will withstand the stresses and separation to come when I leave England, that our two worlds will continue to have space for this.