When my ex and I lived together I always had at least 45 good minutes a day. From 5:30 to 6:15 weekday evenings. No matter what came before nor happened after, those were content moments, sometimes the best of the day. I’ve thought about and discussed this before and labeled my feelings as excitement. I’ve been ruminating on this today (because it’s been just that kind of day) and had a realization: it wasn’t excitement, it was hope. My ex came home from work at 6:15. I spent the time before hopeful that he would be happy to see me. That I would be pleasing and pleased. That our evening would be nice. That it would be a turning point or a restart. During those 45 minutes my life had the possibility of being how I wanted it, how we planned it. And not sometime/somewhere down the road but that night, at dinner. I miss those minutes. I miss that feeling of hope. I’ve been trying to find it in other moments, but nothing has quite replicated it.