You might not remember, but we agonized that it was a leap year. We had to wait so many days, and it was just our bad luck that that particular year, the year we decided the rules no longer applied to us, was the one in four years we’d have to wait one more day. It was chastening and emboldening at once. We’d already waited for months and were fourteen days away from the wait being over. But one more day was unbearable.
We were aching. It was a Friday. Fridays were always the achiest because we had to wait a whole weekend before talking again. All we ever did was wait. Wait to be able to e-mail each other. Wait to talk to each other. Wait to see each other. Wait for our life circumstances to change. Wait for the day we could somehow be together.
Leap Day Me brought up the sustainability of our relationship once we consummated it as we had planned to two weeks from Leap Day. Leap Day Us hoped we could somehow sustain it, though we weren’t sure how. We weren’t wrong to hope, but we were wrong.
Leap Day You said, “The strongest argument I know is that I love you. And you love me. And nothing else in my life will ever be like this.” Leap Day You said, “It’s so big, and so powerful, and so consuming, I can’t imagine life without it.” Leap Day You said, “Nothing fucks with this.”
Leap Day Me reminded Leap Day You that what we had didn’t exist in a vacuum. Other things could take precedence. Other things could, and probably would, fuck with this.
And you definitely don’t remember this, but Leap Day You said Leap Day You sees everything perfectly. And Leap Day You would see me in four years. I asked Leap Day You to promise. Leap Day You did.
Even in the colloquial use of “see,” meaning “speak to,” Leap Day You was wrong.
But Leap Day Me still loves you. Leap Day Me can’t believe it’s been four years since the last Leap Day. And despite everything, Leap Day Me still hopes.