Here’s an important thing to remember: we were friends for more than a year before we began dating. We both saw other people during the course of that friendship. We both got our hearts broken during the course of that friendship. It drew us closer together. It made us fall in love.

At this point, our six-month-long relationship feels -- in many ways -- like a much longer relationship.

I know him. I spend time with him. I respect him. I love him.

And, yeah, I talk about him a hell of a lot.

My boyfriend is a Renaissance man. He loves hardcore music and obscure documentaries. He played soccer and likes adult cartoon shows that make my teeth rot from stupidity. He is intellectual and well-read. I spend time with him. I learn things from him.

And, yeah, I talk about him a hell of a lot.

Maybe you have the wrong idea about our relationship.

I’m not co-dependent. He is not absent. I’m not obsessed with him. He’s not neglectful. I’m not trying to overcompensate for anything. I’m not isolated. I’m not making myself an island. I’m not stuck in the puppy-love stage.

I’m just seeing a lot of different men at once.

When I’m with him, I’m with a CD collector. I’m with an incredibly talented drummer. I’m with a walking catalog of every documentary on Netflix. I’m with a politically-inclined conversationalist. I’m with someone who is afraid of snakes but will kill any spider I ask him to. I’m with a vegetarian. I’m with a Slytherin. I’m with a human thesaurus. I’m with an English major. I’m with a Sociology major. I’m with a sensitive and kind young man. I’m with my best friend. I’m with the love of my life.

And, yeah, I talk about him a hell of a lot.

I’m inclined to relate everything back to him. I’m inclined to be reminded of him throughout the day. I’m inclined to worry about him. I’m inclined to be proud of him. I’m inclined to post pictures of him with too-long and sappy captions. I’m inclined to be thankful for him. I’m inclined to tell you about it.

So, yeah, I talk about him a hell of a lot.

I’ve made some of my best memories with him. I took my first sporadic road-trip with him. I spent my first semester at university with him. I’ve seen good movies with him. I’ve spent at least a hundred hours driving around the parkway with him. I’ve cried on him. I’ve been comforted by him. I’ve shared dusty, unpopular pieces of myself with him.

I have loved him.