I have a freakishly good memory for days, good and bad. I can tell you random dates in my life that weren’t important, but I still remember. And I can tell you dates, or as close as possible, to some of the worst times ever. 

But I remember so many good memories, and that’s what I love about my memory. I can remember the best things that happened to me, I can remember conversations word for word, and I can remember the exact way I felt in most of the situations. 

The times I remember the best are all of my good times with him, of course. I remember on the night that later became our anniversary, how he told me even though my hair was a mess and I was jumping around like crazy and I was gross, I was beautiful. I remember the way I felt that night because it was the first time I spent it in his arms. I remember when he told me he loved me for the first time, because that meant the absolute world to me. 

I love my good memory because I can remember all of the little times too. The day you texted me “Mindset” lyrics and I listened to the song on repeat for the next three days. The time you drove me home and we jammed out to Kesha because it’s us. The day we went to the park near my house and just enjoyed being with each other. The night that we stayed up for hours with me sitting on your lap and just talking about ourselves. The night we stayed up until 2 AM playing Angry Birds because we could. The night my cell phone lost service for a half hour and you were scared that something had happened to me,so you rushed over and held me the tightest. The night I told you the worst thing about my past and you told me you understood and that nobody would ever hurt me because you were here. The other day when you had been with me barely ten minutes and you just held me and told me “I’m so happy when I’m with you” and you kissed me on the head. 

Fuck, I love you.