It was how we came together. We harnessed the void, trained it for our use and created a new life.
It was difficult in the beginning. Her being afraid and skeptical and me, preoccupied with my insecurities and wary of the world.
But we fought through it. Threaded our dreams around our wrists with barbed wire and reached with a fist to anyone who attempted to rip it away.
And they tried.
Her friends stalked my Instagram, searched for a misplaced hand, too big smile or a playful #bae. My friends doubted the strength of our connection. After every phone call we shared, they questioned how we could be when we’ve only ever been in the same room once.
All of them worked to damage what we conceived. And they managed to cut through it.
But we rebuilt it. With tears. With arguments. With silent treatments and subtweets and Jordan memes aimed at each other.
It was reinforced with cement this time. The weight served as a reminder whenever we lifted a hand to do anything.
It’s two years later and the cement hasn’t cracked. Oh, its worn and sometimes damp from unexpected rain showers. But we continue to restore it.
I sit across from her, the kitchen table between us, preparing to ask her if we can add another cord, from her stomach with my eggs and a donor of our choosing.