Happiness is a strange feeling that’s been visiting me way too often lately. I’m not rich. I’ve never had millions in my pocket. But damn, I’m happy. I haven’t found the meaning of life or any new religion—no, I found her—the woman I’ve been with for a long time—but it only hit me recently: she’s my person. The one so many people search for and never find. She’ll never leave me, no matter what, and there’s something so real in that it’s almost scary.

  Our relationship isn’t just some love story. It’s something bigger than money, fame, or power. All that stuff loses its meaning when you’re sitting with her on the couch after a long day. Some people have millions, yachts, and beachfront homes, but most of them don’t even come close to the happiness I feel just being next to her. We’ve been together for 17 years, and during that time, I’ve fucked up. I was young and stupid, and I cheated on her. I was 20 back then, thought I had life figured out. Now, looking back, I’m ashamed. Sometimes, it feels like that wasn’t even me, like it was some other idiot who did all that.

  I don’t believe in God, and I don’t believe in the afterlife. For me, all there is—is now, these minutes, these moments. That’s why I’m savoring every single day with her. Maybe I’ve gotten too sentimental at 37, and perhaps you’ll laugh at me for that. But you know what? I really don’t give a damn.