In a perfect world, love wouldn’t exist. In such a world, you don’t move in together or get married. You co-habitate. You don’t say “I love you,” as if to reassure each other that nothing has changed since the last time you said it. You don’t have to say anything. You don’t have to open yourselves up and be vulnerable. You don’t have to be sensitive to one anothers’ feelings. You cook for each other and drive each other places and fuck each other because you like the feeling of it. Of not being alone.