We fucked on the couch. We planed coming back to my place from the airport in complete silence, and once back at the flat, throw away all of our shit and clothes to have wild sex on the table. That was only one of the many things we planed during these two months of endless Skype conversations, unstoppable Facebook messages and occasional Snapchats. One of the many things that, 9 days in, we haven’t done. Expectations hit the brick wall of reality and our dreams of passion and romance got so disfigured after this crash that they needed urgent plastic surgery. Now they don’t look as beautiful as before, yet I couldn’t say they are ugly. They look normal now; as normal as it feels going to bed and wake up next to each other every morning. As normal as it is for me to cook and for her to wash the dishes, or just sitting in my terrace to have a laugh drinking cheap beer. And, you know what? I fucking love it! I’ve never felt more comfortable in my life, so understood, so accepted, so embraced… so loved. Nope, we did not have wild sex on the table, but it was great anyway. We fucked on the couch.