Living with the boy is calm and cloudless. It’s comforting, effortless, idyllic. We do not argue, we don’t fight. We laugh. We laugh often.

…

In a very curious way I find it odd that suddenly even the most mundane and trivial everyday routine acquires such “togetherness…” Only not that long ago, these trivial things were simply something that I would do alone, on my own, in between personal and professional/academic lives. Things like laundry, groceries, cleaning… these little chores that give me so much comfort in their ordinariness, things that I love to do when I need a break, some down time or to simply clear my head. Now they seem to have acquired this sense – a sense that I cannot describe in any other way but “togetherness” even when they are not necessarily done “together.”

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The only other time I lived with someone was when I was married and that does not evoke the best memories. Sometimes I get these flashbacks, series of flashbacks that throw me into a state of mild panic, before I realize that it is in the past, far removed in the past and just like one shakes off a bad dream, I have to push these memories away, after I have realized that they are no longer real, that they are not happening, that I am safe now, that this is a different relationship where we do not fight and I do not have a reason to slam the door and leave…

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“So you guys are serious?” they ask me after they find out that the boy and I have moved in together. It cracks me up every time they do. Define serious. And while you’re at it, define un-serious, please. Does the fact that we are living together necessarily guarantee that this whole thing is going to end with a ring, a mortgage and a couple of kids? I do not know that… Do I wish that it indeed ended with a ring, a mortgage and a couple of kids? I do not know that either. And yet, was I any less serious before I moved in with the guy? I would not say so, just like the fact that I am living with him now doesn’t make it any more serious than it was before. I still love him the same, except that now I see him a little bit more often.

It amuses me that suddenly this little fact appears to be such a big deal just because it may be some kind of a cornerstone in some relationship book or another. See, as scary as it sounds and despite my notoriously cumbersome commitment issues, if I were to have it my way, I would be moving in with a guy only after a few weeks of knowing him, my logic being that if I like you enough to want to spend a big chunk of my time with you, I might just as well be living with you. The whole “my place/your place” gets pretty boring pretty fast…

And yet, in reality, I wasn’t to have it my way (perhaps for the better of it) and the boy and I followed each and every “step” of this unwritten relationship book, from nerve-wrecking “undefined” phase to post “i love you phase” one little step at a time…

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And yet, living together is a big deal, in a sense that does not necessarily involve the aforementioned ring, the mortgage and the kids. It’s just what a relationship is – or what I think it should be – a man and a woman, living together.

…

Living with the boy is nice. It’s comforting. It’s fun. And as much as I resist the idea of matching cups and bath towels, as much as it takes some getting used to, it does not seem to require an effort at all. It makes me realize that despite my experience in the past, it does not always have to be an uphill struggle and that I never ever have to find myself trapped in a situation where the only thing left to do is to break the dishes and slam the door and leave.