Meeting someone on November 9th and agreeing — right then, on the first day — to see each other once a year on that date and never in between is either the most romantic thing you have ever heard or a structural guarantee of disaster.

Best friends who vacation together every summer — just the two of them, a different city each year, a ritual that becomes the thing they both organize their lives around — are doing something that looks like friendship and is quietly something else entirely.

Ending up somewhere you did not plan to stay is its own kind of story. You were passing through. You had a reason, a timeline, a life that was waiting for you to get back to it.

A kind of love does not know how to be less than what it is. It does not recalibrate when the circumstances change, does not negotiate with time or distance or the reasonable expectations of the world.

A very particular joy lives in a love story that builds a private world — the inside jokes, the references no one else would understand, the letters that are too honest, the way a relationship develops its own language before either person has admitted what it is.