The sunlight is not kind to her today. On gloomy winter afternoons and days when the flowers in her room start to wilt, she would usually yearn for it. But just now, she seems uncomfortable. At an awkward angle, it strikes her coffee-coloured eyes as she struggles to keep them open. I let out a chuckle from across the table and she responds with a glare, her cheeks flushing. We simultaneously smirk, and I whisper three words, words that I have felt so deeply for years, words that have kept us together when we were apart.
Our brief romantic exchange is broken by the alarm ringtone on my phone - a reminder to feed Zorro. I still cannot rely on my memory to do the mundane. His untrimmed nails break into a rhythm as he prances towards us. I pause to appreciate the moment, the privilege of living under the same roof with the person I love the most and the dog I had always wanted to adopt. My eyes meet hers and she lets out an exasperated sigh, ready to witness the typical pre-lunch routine. Smirking unashamedly, I began to squeal and drop to the floor, Zorro following suit, and we initiate a clumsy exchange of playful cues. She shakes her head and proceeds to grab his meal from the kitchen. I scramble to stand back up again but Zorro climbs over me, refusing to let me go.
I remember being nervous about raising a husky, a breed notoriously known for disobedience and quirky behaviour. On some days, I would find myself losing patience, but she balances me out and looks after him. On other days, I am overwhelmed with happiness because he is my best friend, and he matches my ADHD outbursts by zooming around the house.
She comes back with his sparkly blue bowl marked with a bold Z in red, and he finally moves away from me. I am covered in chunks of white fur, his incessant shedding yet another item on the list of compromises I make. I wrap my arms around her waist, and we watch him gobble down his food desperately, almost as if he has not been fed in weeks.