[...] The day prior we’d locked eyes across a crowded lecture hall. Now she was seated at the short end of a large table, wearing jeans and a collarless black button-up. Our wrists began to consort on the table and electrified the event until the wee hours when everyone else had gone home. The Monday that followed we broke up with our significant others in two separate but still interlinked scenes, and the week after we moved into an apartment in Hägersten that a classmate had received in inheritance and was now renting out. I was twenty-seven, Johanna twenty-four. We installed ourselves in each other in a manner that only happens with people who are certain of a long life together, as if we’d received a guarantee that only death would tear us apart. We merged our books and belongings without difference or distinction, and we didn’t need to specify that everything we bought (a standing mixer, balcony furniture, a Lars Norén collection titled De döda pjäserna) was for communal usage. There was no future plan, no future theater play, no trip, no party, no move that didn’t include both of us, and as time went on, the references and experiences we had in common multiplied until they filled our lives to the brim. She was my main character. My life was Johanna; the conversations we had, the place on Earth we shared. I would never again be as sure of anyone as I was of her, as sure that I truly had someone. Not even years later, when I met the dark eyes of my newborn daughter for the first time, would I be as sure that I had someone.