The Love of My Life Is Hiding In: Stockholm

I’m in Stockholm and the love of my life might be here, too.

He’s the kind of guy that wears eyeglasses because they look cool, not because he can’t see, and turtlenecks, and boots without laces, and long pea coats. I roll my eyes when he glances as his reflection in one too many mirrors we pass on our first date, and call him a pretty boy—which he is—but he’s more than that, too.

As it turns out, he’s bold and funny and reads a lot. He’s an avid traveler and has lived in more cities than me. He plays guitar and writes lyrics to songs he’ll only let me hear. He has a corporate job but he dreams of a more creative career. He won’t pursue it, of course. He’s much too practical for that. He’s pragmatic where I’m idealistic, and we often have passionate debates about happiness.

Mom says we balance each other out well, Dad says he wears his pants too tight. Paris texts him selfies of her outfits before she wears them, and Maria wishes he had a brother.

Sometimes we smoke weed and I write love stories inspired by him while he colors in my tattoos with sharpies. Once in a while I resent him because his job keeps us in one place and I get restless. Once in a while he resents me because I don’t want kids and he wants several. But at the end of a long day, he always appreciates an empty house and I always appreciate the feeling of home.

I don’t know about you but my Swedish love may be giving my French and German loves a run for their money. I’ll let y’all know for sure when I meet him.

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