I came across an old photo of myself recently. It was a picture from the pre-digital age, a time that now seems almost as far removed as the Mesozoic Era, albeit with fewer dinosaurs and nicer clothes. There I was, aged ten or 11, smiling guilelessly at the lens, cheeks squidgy with puppy fat, my face overexposed and slightly sweaty. It wasn’t a
flattering image. It looked so different from my carefully angled selfies. Yet that earlier photo had an unvarnished realness that felt… well, nostalgic.
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I text David to tell him I’m so nervous about moving and marrying him that I wake at 4am every day, stomach churning. Even the dogs are still snoring. I’ve never been vulnerable like this with him before. I have always put on a brave face, leaving him to read about my insecurities later. But he surprises me by being incredibly supportive.