The Swedish word lycklig is translated to happy in English but it doesn’t quite cover the entirety of its real meaning. Lycklig is a deeply rooted state, not the result of merely one or a few fleeting moments of delight. It’s a mixture of joy, luck and fortune. A form of ultimate content. 

That’s what I feel sometimes in the silent instances in between. It takes me by storm, suddenly and abruptly. It spreads like a comforting warmth from my chest and out my fingertips and toenails. Like the burst of fireworks but descrete and quiet. All of it, whilst I glance at him. Holding his hand. Our arms intertwined. Or after a good laugh over nothing in particular. Or while he mutters restlessly in his sleep in bed next to me. 

I cannot recall feeling lycklig before. I feel I have to restrain myself, as if not to startle and scare it away. I didn’t even dare to shape the word with my tongue or in my mind before. But today, at 4:30 am in the breaking of dawn, I finally did. 

He snores and jerks softly in bed, his hand searching for me underneath the covers. He finds my waist and pulls me in closer. I feel his body heat radiating against my back. He hums contently. I cannot tell if he’s sound asleep or awake between dreams. I just know I could lay like this forever.