It had been a long time since we last lived together.
Nine days between houses in a whirlwind of reaquaintance and nostalgia didn't properly prepare us for the magnitude of returning to Bethlehem and sharing our lives once more.
Fuelled by high expectations and months of anticipation, the first few days were a shock. A shock as we learnt how to accommodate another person again, learnt how to communicate and work together, relearnt the quirks we had managed to play down in our last spontaneous meeting.
And we clashed. Stubborn and swollen with our own ideas and agendas. Wrote angry poetry and thought about whether it was right that I had travelled back to the town we had once loved in.
But we quickly uncurled our fists, let go of the whimsical fantasy of a romantic holiday and embraced instead the beautiful tired mess of us.
Three and a half weeks when Connor was within arms reach, when I could throw my thoughts out into the room and he was there to hear them, when we could cook the vegetables we had planted and picked together, when we woke up to each other.
We were not unfailingly happy, things were not always simple and straight forward, but we were together. We could talk through any problems we had in the same time zone, we could hold each other if we were hurting. And oh how we loved each other.
I spent three and a half weeks with my best friend and built a little life together, as we always seem to do.
I think the hardest thing about the times we spend together is that it actually works. If it felt forced, if it meant nothing, if it was just okay, it would be easy to walk away. It is hard to know what we could have, if it weren't for visas and immigration and the cost of US education.
We are now back on different planets, orbiting around different suns, colliding when we can, and it is so hard.
We do not know when we will see each other again or where we will end up or what this journey will look like for us, but I trust that we will walk this road together for as long as we can.
Until next time, Connor.
