You remember coffee dates, and slowly, unknowingly, falling in love over the scent of coffee beans in the air, the countless orders of medium drips and fleeting glances over coffee cups.

But right now, you’re standing in the kitchen, light escaping in little patterns through the airy curtains, that same scent you breathed while falling in love permeating the room. It’s early morning, and you’re tired, exhausted, weary. And he’s standing just a few feet away, but it feels like miles, miles between you. The tension, weight, in the air is almost palpable, contrasting with the brightness of the room. He’s madly shuffling around, fiddling with the coffee maker, reaching for the mugs in the cupboard.

If you look around, as you always seem to do, you remember. Everything is attached to a memory.

You glance at the cupboards, rustic and faded but with dainty, Victorian style handles he could just not pass up when you were searching for the perfect house. If anyone would choose a house solely on the style of cupboard handles (and an ‘absolutely incredible’ vintage, clawfoot bath tub), it would be him.

You glance at the refrigerator, and you almost forget what colour it was originally (silver? White?) because it’s now completely buried in magnets, pictures, memories.

There’s a photo recently sent by Rachel, taken straight from her Broadway escapades (and you always knew she’d go far); it is of terrible quality, shot in low lighting, but, in contrast, she’s absolutely beaming, smiling with bright eyes, and you’ve never seen her happier.

There’s a calendar (September already?) defaced with marks and scribbles in his handwriting, important dates for work, meetings that cannot be missed, even if it means sacrificing time with you (and that’s okay, it’s alright, you’re fine).

There’s a cheesy magnet of a palm tree beside a shaggy-haired surfer from your trip to the beach in what seems like forever ago. You remember the strong smell seeping into your pores, the salty tang of the sea, the mock angry face aimed at you when you pushed him into the water. You remember giddy smiles, constant laughter. You remember dragging him into the souvenir shop at the end of your long day, wanting to buy something to make sure you remember, desperately holding onto the happiness you felt in that moment. He said it was cheesy, stupid, but the look in his blue and green eyes told you otherwise.

But the comforting sounds of echoes of sea shells and waves of the ocean are disrupted with the sharp pang of coffee mugs hitting, or rather slamming, onto the kitchen counter.

You remember the day you bought those mugs. It was right when you moved in together, wasn’t it? Your utter clumsiness and inability to resist the temptation of dancing on furniture caused you to jump onto the box clearly marked fragile and break its contents beyond recognition (and you will never, ever forget his incredulous face in that moment). He desperately wanted something expensive to house his coffee addiction, something flashy, maybe from Crate and Barrel or Jonathan Adler. But you dragged him through the streets to a dingy thrift shop, scouring through the racks for something personal and homey until you found the absolute perfect, dainty cream mug printed with beautiful blue hydrangeas. You told him you had to get it because they reminded you of his eyes, and you will never forget the way he looked at you in that moment.

You remember coffee dates, and slowly, unknowingly, falling in love over the scent of coffee beans in the air, the countless orders of medium drips and fleeting glances over coffee cups.

You look up now, and although he’s turned around, you know him and what he’s doing. He’s picking a fight. You know him well enough.

You get up to reach for the coffee maker, asking if he needs any help, but he finds it patronizing and offensive, and suddenly you’re fighting. He’s screaming at you and you’re standing there. He’s positively incoherent, babbling, but you catch when he says you never feel anything anymore, you don’t let anything bother you. That he’s screaming at you, not with you. That you’re standing beside him, but not with him.

You know him well enough. You know why he’s doing this, just to feel something, anything at all.

And suddenly, you don’t hear screams anymore. You hear the sharp crash of those beloved ceramic coffee mugs, shattering across the floor into little pieces, beyond the ability to be glued back together. And you think that even if you tried, the pieces wouldn’t fit.

And now, you remember a time when everything was going well, when life was simple. High school: when you were at Dalton in your safe haven, while he was facing the world, but you had each other and everything you needed. Even facing the distances of college you managed to work it out, you got through it together.

But right now, and you don’t feel it, you’re falling apart. The repressed emotions so akin to long ago, when you would pretend everything was alright at home. When to your own father, the Warblers, even your friends, you were not you. You were a persona, a character made up to please. You’re starting to doubt if there even was a you in the first place.

Reality comes back to you with a sharp sting when he starts sobbing uncontrollably, grabbing at your shirt in desperation, a mantra of I’m sorry, I’m sorry escaping in whimpers from his lips. He knows how special those mugs are, knows how much they mean, what they embody.

And now you remember, when you’re with Kurt, you’re undeniably you. He’s always had you.

You whisper we’ll make this work.

He looks up at you now, eyes wide and wet and so, so beautiful.

You know that both of you will never forget that moment, even as life gets better. He will come home later in the week while you’re sitting in your study, with your glasses and unruly hair, with two new coffee mugs, printed with a stunning, fantastical forest with hues of greens and ambers. And while blushing uncontrollably, he will say he had to get them because they reminded him of your eyes. And then, you will look at him with an uncontrollable smile, sprint over to him in a hurry, cup his jaw, and kiss him fleetingly all over his face until you get to his lips. You’ve always had me, you will whisper, your lips brushing against his, until he leans forward to close the distance.

And you will both learn to work through both your warts and wonders, learn to trust each other completely, through coffee dates and grubby mornings, as Blaine and Kurt.

You remember coffee dates, and slowly, unknowingly, falling in love over the scent of coffee beans in the air, the countless orders of medium drips and fleeting glances over coffee cups.