Dear B,
Thank you for your message last night, in which you explained that you don’t want to “put a timeline on things” and would prefer we “let it grow naturally, like a wildflower”. I have read it several times. Once normally. Once in a calm voice. Once out loud to my sister, who made a noise I have only ever heard from a vet.
I respect your approach. I have also done some reading about wildflowers.
On Growing Naturally
Wildflowers do grow naturally. They grow on roundabouts, in car parks and through the cracks of abandoned petrol stations. They are not known for choosing a spot carefully. They are known for showing up wherever they like and then being mowed by the council without anyone filing a complaint.
We have been “seeing where this goes” for seven months. I have seen where it goes. It goes to your flat on Fridays. It goes to the same Thai place, where the owner has started bringing one menu. It went once to your cousin’s barbecue, where you introduced me as “this is Zack”.
“This is Zack” is not a label. It is a fact about my name. You’d say it about a delivery driver.
On Timelines
You said timelines feel like pressure. I understand. A calendar is just a countdown with pictures of lighthouses. But you have a timeline for everything else. You know when your passport expires. You have a reminder for your car’s service. You have a seven-step skincare routine with a timer. You know, to the second, how long to leave a teabag in. You are a person of extraordinary scheduling discipline with one exception, and the exception is me. I am the teabag you forgot in the cup.
On Not Wanting to Rush
Nobody is rushing. Rushing would be a proposal on the second date. I am 39. My GP now says “at your age” before every sentence, including “hello”. I am simply asking whether, after seven months, I may leave a toothbrush in your bathroom, or whether the toothbrush also needs to grow naturally.
I tried. I left it there in May. It was returned in June, in a sandwich bag, with a note: “you forgot this x”. I did not forget it. I planted it. You dug it up and posted it back.
A Modest Proposal
I am not asking for a ring, a joint account or a shared streaming password, although I notice you already use mine, and there is a profile on it I didn’t make, called “D”. I am asking for something small. A season. Just a rough sense of whether we are in spring, or a very long autumn.
Because here is the thing about wildflowers, B. They’re lovely. Nobody’s against them. But nobody plans a future around one. You admire them from the train. You say, “Oh, nice.” Then you go home to the things you actually water.
In Closing
I will continue to let it grow naturally for now. I am patient. I once waited forty minutes for a bus that was, according to the screen, “due”. It never came. I’m noticing a pattern in what I wait for. I have bought a small trowel. I am not saying I will use it. I’m saying a gardener knows something is dead before the something does.
Yours, organically and without commitment, until further notice,
Zack
P.S. Your mum asked me at the barbecue what we were. I said “wildflowers”. She said “oh, love” and gave me a second burger. Then she called me Dan. Twice. I’m told Dan was also a wildflower. I’m told Dan lasted eleven months. I would now like to know who “D” is.