You understand how I am without me having to verbalize. I am in awe of how you are enamored by me. By my imperfections. By my goofy side. By my weird self. By my unfilterable word vomit. By my incomprehensible trajectory of thought. You know my strengths, and you love me for them. You know my weaknesses, and you love me for them still. I didn’t know I had the capacity to be cared for like this outside of the platonic setting. I was always self-contained and self-sufficient. I still am. But the thought of you being here to share with me my burdens makes for a wholly lighter load. What’s more, is that I don’t need to complain. I know you are as far fetched from a mind reader as you are a lion-tamer, but you read me as if you had personal access between the synapses that make up my multiverses of thought. I still get surprised by how much I miss you even when you’re still on the process of saying goodbye. I am pleasantly surprised by how enamored I am with you as well. Equally as. More than, even. I don’t know when you became my greatest comfort. But the when doesn’t really matter. You are my greatest comfort. Pinky promise.


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