It didn’t take long for me to know I was in love with Laura.
At first, our interactions were mostly online: Instagram flirting, book recommendations, long text chains. Classic millennial stuff.
Then: a coffee date that wasn’t a date (just two potential new friends catching up to chat about books); and an accidental drinks date that wasn’t a date (we ran into each other at the pub and talked until dawn).
Then on New Year’s Eve, as 2017 became 2018, we drank whisky in an abandoned church in Newcastle, Australia, and shared our first kiss on top of a trestle table.
The moment our lips met, I felt like the universe tilted on its axis – and just as the table collapsed underneath us, Laura caught my head before it hit the ground and said, “I guess this is how I fell for you.”
Before Laura, I had only been in straight relationships, and wasn’t sure if this was the “right” thing for me. It was new and exciting and I definitely had a crush, if nothing else. My heart fluttered whenever my phone pinged with a new message from her; I collected memes that I thought would make her laugh; I gave her the names of books I desperately needed her to read – so that we could discuss them. But I wondered if I was just getting caught up in the hype of a new flirty friendship. Laura was gay, whereas my sexuality was more nebulous, so it also felt important not to ‘“lead her on”.
I discussed all this with my friend, while visiting her in Brisbane. The sharehouse was on Laura Street. The morning I was due to head home to Newcastle, she took me to her favourite cafe, Saint Laura. When we arrived, my eyes were immediately drawn to the chalkboard advertising the toastie of the day – at the bottom, in big bold letters, was their social media hashtag #ILOVELAURA.
I felt as if I’d fallen into a weird version of The Truman Show.
My friend’s advice about Laura was something like: “You could die tomorrow, just date the girl.”
On the plane back home, I couldn’t stop thinking about Laura. Part of me felt like now was the time to back out, before we were both in too deep. But at the same time, I’d never felt more alive, more full of possibility and joy.
Then the plane hit a rough patch and I froze, gripping the armrests, heart beating out of my chest. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, wondering why for the first time in my life I was panicking about a harmless bit of turbulence. Then I had a realisation: if the plane crashed and I died, Laura would never know I loved her.
I opened my eyes, grinning maniacally to myself. I had my answer.
I loved her. I love Laura.
As soon as I landed, I texted her to say I was coming over. I’d never even been to her house before. She wrote back with her address and as I climbed the four flights of stairs to her bedroom, I tried to think of what to say.
I paced the room telling a long-winded story about turbulence and somehow ended up on my knees on the carpet when I said: “So I guess what I’m trying to say is … I love you.”
Laura knelt down opposite me and said: “Well that’s really convenient, because I love you too.”
We walked down the street to get gelato, and now – almost six years later – we’re getting married. Not in the abandoned church, but pretty close to where it all began.
Amy Lovat’s debut novel Mistakes And Other Lovers, $34.99, is out now through Pan Macmillan Australia.
Do you have a romantic realisation you would like to share? Email australia.lifestyle@theguardian.com with “The moment I knew” in the subject line to be considered for future columns
