12 Months//michael clifford short story

I thought that love was staying up all night with him drinking shitty black coffee and talking about what we were going to do once we had the money. Love was wishing he wouldn't come back to our shitty apartment, at least for one more night. Love was eating microwave meals in front of the tiny television, and it being okay because I was with him. Love was wanting to go back home, but not even bothering because I would be apart from him. But it's not. That's not love.

part one of the 12 months series