We were never supposed to happen

We were never supposed to happen.
We met at work, 18 months ago, at a time when I was in a relationship and you were 6 months away from moving home, to the other side of the world. But the first thing you ever did was make me laugh, and I fell for you. Just like that.
We spent your last 6 months in London flirting with the idea of our proximity. I ended the relationship. We grew closer. But we were still bound into restriction by our job positions, so we hid. We would steal glances, bounce off each other's humour, complement the other's wit. We were a team long before we made it official.
You left me with the memory of two magical nights in late September, your last before leaving. They were beautiful and hilarious and far too short. Your absence was deafening and I did everything I could to block it out, but it was there.
And then, somehow, the Lockdown brought you back to me.
Amidst the chaos of the cases and confinement and my own illness, we found our way back to each other. This time, free of any and all restrictions. All bar distance. So here we are, a year and a half later and we're finally able to call the other Home, even if that home is 10,497 miles away.
Thank you for being the sweetest Lockdown Love Story I could've hoped for. I can't wait to love you in real-time.
À toi, tout le temps,
C.