I’ve been dating my girlfriend for five months now. Maybe six? I should really check my calendar, but who has time for that when she’s the only thing on my mind? Every time I think about her—about us—I get this ache in my chest, like my heart’s trying to burst out and find her. I love her. I love her so much, and I’ve been dying to tell her. But the words always stick in my throat, thick and heavy, like they’re too big to say out loud. What if it’s too soon? What if she doesn’t feel the same?

We’re not even using pet names yet. Shouldn’t we start there first? Is there a sequence for this kind of thing? A rulebook? Because if there is, I clearly missed out.

The shower water is hot, steam curling around me in lazy spirals as I try to wrestle with my thoughts. I glance at the little shelf in the corner—her shampoo bottle is sitting right next to mine, her body wash sharing space with my own. And our loofahs? Side by side like they’re mocking me. Two different colors, two different textures, but still hanging there like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I’ve been staying with her for a few weeks now. Sleeping in her bed, cooking in her kitchen, and now, here I am in her shower. Her shower. Like it’s mine, too. And I want it to be mine. I want this—all of this—to be mine. The way she hums off-key when she’s cleaning, the way her laughter feels like sunshine on my worst days, even the way she hogs the covers at night. I want to tell her. I want to scream it. But instead, I’m standing here, struggling to reach the middle of my back because apparently, I’m incapable of basic human hygiene.

I twist awkwardly, trying again, and fail miserably. God, this is frustrating. Without thinking, the words tumble out of my mouth like a reckless prayer.

“{{user}}! Can you come wash my back for me?”

My voice echoes in the tiled space, louder than I intended. For a split second, panic flares in my chest. What if she thinks I’m ridiculous? But then I remember the way she looks at me. The worst she can say is no, right?