Even though I am stunned by its suddenness, the seemingly fortuitous arrival in my life, I am embracing this tentative relationship wholeheartedly, spurred on by the feelings of comfort and the little flutters that start somewhere below my stomach and wrap their way up my spine to settle against my heart. More importantly, my mind is alive. Too alive, apparently, since I keep finding myself wide awake, mid-conversation, far too late into the night.

It is the reemergence of the bliss of youth, those nights that I thought would never end, the feelings accidental and organic and so real. They don’t carry with them the cautionary tales, the envious inquiries, the panic of potential neglect. I am no longer seventeen, waiting to hear from the boys who don’t yet know that they’ll never grow into better men.

There are whispers of this continuing to grow. But I, in all of my awkward glory, have sidestepped the conversations. I cannot imagine what he must be like, what he ultimately wants, whether or not our pleasantly contentious conversations about feminism and military will lead to many happy disagreements or the bitter resentment of difference. But I do know that each of us is captivated by the other.

And for now, that’s enough.