I was 16 years old and gay. Alone. Except for depression, my constant companion, joining me in bed, waiting for the day’s end. The light was on. I raised my fist to shield my eyeschaos crew slot, but light slipped through and found me. So I surrendered and played along. My hand contracting and releasing, light dispersing through my fist like a kaleidoscope. A decade later, I met Lucy. My soon-to-be girlfriend’s sole tattoo was of a fist inside a lightbulb. I like to think it was her light that had slipped through time to comfort me on my longest day. — Lena Munzer
Image
My toddler insists that I climb into his crib each night. I wedge myself between him and the rail, and I prop my feet on a mound of stuffed animals. We look into each other’s eyes. “I love you, Niam.” “Mama, why do you love me?” I’m caught off guard, never having had to explain love before. “Because you’re sweet and cute,” I say. “I love talking to you, hugging you, kissing you and spending time with you.” He is silent, contemplating the meaning of love. Then he says, “Mama, I love you.” — Mansi Kothari
ImageCrib time with Niam.Second Soul MateI told my dying wife, Karen, that I was going to buy a cemetery plot. She said to get three. “One for me, one for you and one for your second wife.” The epitaph on our headstone is the Yiddish word “bashert,” meaning “fate” or “soul mate.” When Jill’s husband, Ron, was dying, he told her to keep going to the gym so she would look good for her second husband. Jill and I are confident Ron and Karen would be happy Jill still looks hot and, more importantly, we have found our second bashert. — David Pressel
ImageStaying fit with Jill. My Best BackupThe office holiday party looms. Over text, I joke to my best friend that I should bring a date skilled in politics. A tricky colleague had been spreading rumors about me; I didn’t want to have to squash the rumors alone. “PUT ME IN COACH,” my friend texted back, immediately. “I was BORN for this.” She was furious for me about my colleague — had been all year. But she promised to behave at the party. “Like a GOOD MOB WIFE,” she wrote, “I will be ALL SMILES.” Who needs a politician when you’ve got a Soprano? — Chiara Eisner
ImageMy Soprano wife is on the right. This was taken after the annual talent show we host. (We wear bow ties because we are both emcees.)See more Tiny Love Stories at nytimes.com/modernlove. Submit yours at nytimes.com/tinylovestories.
Want more from Modern Love? Watch the TV series; sign up for the newsletter; or listen to the podcast on iTuneschaos crew slot, Spotify or Google Play. We also have swag at the NYT Store and two books, “Modern Love: True Stories of Love, Loss, and Redemption” and “Tiny Love Stories: True Tales of Love in 100 Words or Less.”