When day and night are of equal length.

There are times when the necklace you gave me feels like an anchor around my neck. I love you—I do—but promises are just words and sometimes I don't think you really want to marry me at all.

We're kids masquerading as adults without a damn clue how to iron our clothes and budget our time, but you say you want a small wedding and I know you're lying.

You spoon me every night as we lie in bed and I doubt whether this is what I want for the rest of my life: cleaning up your messes, raising kids I never want to have with you, hiding my disappointment when you work late almost every night.

I struggle with how you ignore me.

I'm selfish and unkind at times and you don't have a clue because you don't really know me.

You show me your insecurity every day when you cover me up before I tiptoe down the hall to use the bathroom, careful not to wake your roommate.

I'm considerate; I try to schedule "couple time" around your plans because your friends are a priority to you.

You tell me which of my friends you dislike—all of them—and snort when I say I can't stand one of yours.

The guy with the record? Yeah, him.

All too often I think about what it would be like to be single again. How lonely I'd be.

My friend at work—Santana—tells me that our relationship is toxic. You're no good for me.

I'm stubborn, though. I defend you by saying that you just had a tough childhood—one filled with loss, anger, and regret.

Brittany, Santana says, that's bullshit.

It's no reason for you to treat me like I'm invisible half the time and just some clingy bitch the other half.

Santana is funny and wise and kisses my lips until they're almost as swollen as hers.

I spend all day flirting with her, teasing her, and making her come with only two fingers in the dim light of the supply room.

She makes promises that don't seem hollow and gives me gifts that aren't anchors.

We continue this little affair in the day time, but the guilt starts to eat at me after a while. I'm supposed to marry you, remember?

But in the end I leave you—and the anchor—to be with her instead.