I Texted My Future Partner for a Week: What I Learned About Real Love

Monday

I saved your number as Someday.

Typed “hi” and backspaced it into weather.

Sent a photo of my sink—two bowls, one clean.

You replied with bubbles only, the honest kind:

Three dots, then nothing. I learned patience has a sound.

Tuesday

I told you about my favorite crosswalk,

how it refuses to hurry even when I do.

You sent a voice note that I couldn’t play—

silence wearing headphones. I learned that not all waiting is empty.

Wednesday

I forwarded a joke I’ve never outgrown.

You sent a location pin to a future kitchen.

I could smell burnt toast that had not happened yet.

I learned home is a promise with crumbs on it.

Thursday

I asked what we argue about.

You answered with a grocery list: tenderness, pepper, and time.

We ran out of time first.

I learned calendars can be kinder than clocks.

Friday

I texted from a loud room.

You replied with a question that turned the music down:

“What part of you needs the hug, exactly?”

I learned that specificity is a doorway.

Saturday

I sent the boundary I once mistook for a wall.

You drew a window in it with your thumb.

Light came through like it had an appointment.

I learned love is architecture, not magic.

Sunday

I wrote, “I don’t need you to fix me. Just sit here.”

You sent a photo of two chairs facing the same direction.

No faces. Just horizon.

I learned the future is not a person. It is a place we keep choosing—

And I’m already on my way.