The girl who changed you.

It's finally happened to you. I knew it would. It was due. She was waiting – or were you?

It's there when I open the apps; tags and favourites and sharing, so so much sharing. I see her getting off the train and walking hurriedly to town, or coming the other way, a smile on her perfect face. It's there. But not for everyone to see. Not yet. 

Your situation, this excitement and intensity brewing in your heart and mind that's so alien...is only hinted at to begin with. Like it's a secret and you don't want to jinx it. Like people knowing could stamp in the freshly laid snow, spoil the clean crisp sheets, steal the smooth stone that's skimming so perfectly. I smile and I know. Even if you don't. 

She's that girl – that woman. Kerri, Ashleigh, Paris, Heather. Demi, Kristie, Holly, Maria. 

I see it in your eyes when we cross paths by chance. “I'm good,” you'll say, a sparkle in your smile that I don't think I've ever seen, in the decades we've known each other. It's genuine. It's effortless. You've faked it so many times, set charms and turned tricks; muttered in ears and linked little fingers under the table. All movements. Insincere. Meant well. But not real. 

It's like you went away, turned dormant, and then when you emerged you were better. Because your life had changed. You'd found her.

And you know what? It can be pretty crushing, extinguishing, draining...to realise. Every time a guy says to me that he can't commit because he's just too busy with work, every time I hear the words 'hiccup' or 'rain check', every time I fight to be seen and to be appreciated for who I am and where I am – which is right there, that night, with you – every time I'm led along and strung up and left to dry myself out, I realise. I'm not her. It won't be me.

I'm not that girl – that woman – who will change you. Who you'll happily change for. She'll come along eventually, you'll seek her out or she'll just fall into your lap, and you won't even know it to begin with, because she'll be just like the others...at first. The difference is, you'll make time for her. You'll trash the lines and ditch the play – you'll peel yourself raw and let her in. She'll make you happy. Happier than I, or any girl (girls, plural, many of them) before me, could.

You'll meet up with her when you finish a long shift, you'll travel across the city to see her, an hour on the central line; you'll walk her home, just down the street, because you can't bear any time without her, and then as soon as you get back you'll check for texts. You'll get it bad. And that's amazing. Isn't it? You'll finally get it.

The thing is, the ones you change for – the ones you plan to marry, share a home with, sleep beside until the end of time – won't always stay. They may leave quietly, closing the door behind them. Or they'll break away, loudly and violently, spitting hurt and smashing your heart to pieces. Perhaps because they realise they need more – or they'll just decide they can tear you up, like you did so many others before them...and hopefully you'll learn and you'll grow from it. You'll feel everything, finally. The others and I will applaud you. We'll hold up banners and make a cake. 

If they do stay, then you are very lucky, and you have to let her know. That you are, and that you know it. Please do. Propose on that hilltop, buy all the flowers, write cards and watch films and make plans and appreciate every moment – every smile, every kiss, every word.

Maybe someday I'll be that to someone. That woman, that love. I always seem to be the one before – the good luck talisman that trips up fate and gets things moving. I'm glad I can help, I really am. But gosh, it would be nice if it were me. Maybe. Until that day comes, until that man appears, I'll keep trying, keep compromising, keep hurting...and keep hoping.